Skyrim: The Wolf Queen Reigns!
by Tusken1602
Summary: Sequel to Skyrim: the Wolf Queen Awakened. Tala and Serana have their alliance, but will it be enough to stand against the new High King of Skyrim, the famous Dragonborn? And in the wings, both above and below, other forces stir against the new Vodahmin Covenant. Rated M for violence and "other stuff."
1. Chapter 1: New Beginnings

**Author's Note: This is a sequel to my previous Skyrim story: Skyrim: The Wolf Queen Awakened. If you have already read it, WELCOME to the next installment of the story! If you haven't, none of what you about to read will make sense.  
-Tusken1602**

* * *

 ***COLLEGE OF WINTERHOLD*  
WINTERHOLD  
SKYRIM**

"Alesan!" Llewellyn Dragonborn laughed, being dragged along the College's passageways by the hand. "What in the world is going on?"

"This way, Father!" Alesan answered, beaming at his adopted father. "Sarai said it was a surprise!"

Navigating the maze of the College's lower levels would have left others hopelessly lost. But Llewellyn and his children had spent many months here, splitting their time between each of the eight holds that remained in Skyrim, while the Dragonkeep in Helgen was being completed. Sofie and Alesan knew every inch of the College like the back of their hands, much to the chagrin of whatever housecarl or college student assigned to keep an eye on the children.

Finally, the door ahead of them opened, and two figures turned toward the newcomers. Enthir and Sarai Gellarus both bowed in respect as Llew approached. He waved aside their gestures of obeisance. Enthir had been his friend even when the Bosmer had been a lowly fence for the Thieves' guild, long before he had even _known_ he was the Dragonborn, much less been High King. And Sarai was of course, his most trusted friend, confidant, and lover.

"We have a surprise for you, my king," she smiled, and the grin was like predatory wolf eyeing a staked goat.

Enthir shot him an equally smug grin. "It took us a _long_ while," he said, "With much trial and error. Well, mostly error, if we're honest."

"But we've finally got it," Sarai finished. Excitement was blazing in both of their eyes, and the enthusiasm in the room was _palpable_.

"What?" Llew asked after a long and pregnant silence.

Sarai stepped aside, and lifted the cover off of the table.

Llewellyn Hereon gasped, and stepped forward to grasp the long weapon that Sarai now offered to him. The long barrel was cast in Dwarven Metal, but the stock was beautifully carved out of walnut. _Magical_ runes hummed along seemingly every inch of the barrel, and in strategic points of the stock as well.

"This is… It's… Is this what I think it is?" he stammered breathlessly.

Sarai indicated a wicker target set up on the far side of the long room.

"It's loaded and ready to go… if you can remember how to work it?"

Lewis Heron smiled and closed his eyes, remembering the movies of his youth, before he had been _pulled_ across the threshold of death into a realm he had known only as a game. He planted the butt-stock against his shoulder, casting his eye down the long barrel. A crude sight had been placed on the top, with a single dot on the end of the weapon, to be lined up with the two dots closer to him.

"Here goes nothing," he grinned, and took long aim.

 _It would be very bad form for the High King to miss his first shot_ , he thought to himself, and then pulled the trigger.

For a half-moment, he thought he had done something wrong: the hammer moved, and there was a small _flash_ of sparks, then nothing. Suddenly, a _thunderous_ BOOM sounded, and the weapon kicked against him like a mule that had been wronged. Recovering his balance, Llewellyn peered through the black smoke that now filled the room to see the distant target now wreathed in blue magical flames.

"Every musket-ball is enchanted with a Fire-Rune," the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold explained with a satisfied grin.

The High King of Skyrim gaped openly, and turned back to the other three figures in the room: his friend, his adopted son, and his lover.

"Not a _word_ of this gets out, before we can put them into mass production," he said in a low voice.

"We are already quietly putting the word out for blacksmiths across the eight holds," Enthir nodded in confirmation. "The College will be the _only_ ones capable of producing the weapons, have no fear, Majesty. Without the hidden runes, the weapon _will_ fly apart in an explosion that _will_ kill whoever attempts to recreate it."

"Muzzle-loader?"

"Easiest to make," Sarai nodded. "But with enough training, it can still fire three to four times a minute, at nearly double the range of any crossbow or arrow. And," she placed a hand on the barrel, and a row of runes gleamed along the barrel, " _it will_ hit what you point it at, if it's within range, which is an improvement over… _earlier_ models."

Lewis nodded. " _The muskets from our world_ ," had been what Sarai had almost said, but held back for Enthir and Alesan's sake. "This," he marveled, "this could alter the balance of power in Skyrim."

"No, my king."

At his puzzled expression, Sarai stepped forward and took the weapon from his hands.

"This will alter the balance of power for the _world_."

* * *

 ***GJUKAR'S MONUMENT*  
WHITERUN HOLD  
SKYRIM **

The running figures were panting now like a bellows at a blacksmith's forge. Strong as they were, they were still no match for a lancer on horseback, much less ones armed with recurved saddle bows. Eight of their number had already been ridden down or riddled with arrows.

Belhar grunted, gesturing the rest of his party forward, and drew a giant double-bladed axe from his back. His tribe had come all the ways from the Colovian Highlands, drawn to new lands by the promise of freedom from persecution and slaughter. _Maybe_ … _maybe,_ if he could gain them enough time, they could lose their pursuers in the maze of rocks between them and their ultimate destination.

He bellowed defiance as the first of the horsemen came over the crest of the hill towards the giant stone monument. One of the hand-axes on his belt went whirling through the air. The rider let out a shocked cry and raised his round shield decorated with the white horse head of Whiterun, and then let out a shriek as the weapon split wood and metal, biting deep into the arm beneath. But then another three of his companions were beside him, two with long lances that would outdistance even his massive weapon, and another with a drawn bow that would render even his throwing axes moot.

Still, he roared all the louder, as they approached, and brought the broad blade of his axe up to block the incoming arrow, launched from too far away. Suddenly, each of the horsemen was pulling their mount up short, insofar as it was possible: a ton of horseflesh and armor does not stop on a dime, and the earth plowed beneath the churning hooves as the riders struggled to regain control of their mounts. Stealing a glance back, Belhar saw a row of figures rise from the nearby scrub brush. Some were clad in thick robes, hooded and masked. Others were covered from head to toe in feather and bone armor and headdresses. He bristled, unsure if these were friends, or merely more foes. The fact that all of their weapons were trained on his pursuers, however, was a good sign.

The rest of the Nordic horsemen were now assembled, a patrol of almost twenty strong. None of the newcomers were mounted, but the broken ground around Gjukar's Monument made a mounted charge unadvisable, to say the least. One of the mounted party spurred her horse forward, but sheathed her sword and removed her helmet to show that, at least for now, talking was all that was needed. A hooded figure, wearing a carved mask that covered his entire face, stepped forward to meet her.

"Lord Piquine," the horsemen stated, and there was a begrudging respect in the Dunmer's face and voice.

"Lady Irileth," the masked figure greeted in return, and his voice was laced with almost mocking levels of courtesy and formality.

"You are trespassing on Whiterun land," the housecarl of Whiterun hissed. "And interfering with the pursuit of criminals."

"Are we?" the hooded figure looked over his shoulder at Belhar, who gripped his axe menacingly. "My, my, how utterly careless of us. We were merely patrolling the southern border of _Vodahmin_ land, and we see harmless travelers being run down like _animals_."

"Harmless?" Irileth almost shrieked, "Look at that _monster_!"

Movarth Piquine, Warden of the South Reach, looked once again at the towering figure of the Minotaur who still held his massive axe at the ready.

"I see only a chieftain, prepared to die for his people," he shrugged. "And one whom the _High Mother_ had decreed should be given succor and refuge within the Covenant."

"By the _Emperor_ 's order, and the Treaty of Falenesti," Irileth continued, " _All_ Daedra worship is banned within the Empire, and those who follow their ways are condemned."

Movarth snarled beneath the Mask of Otar. That particular treaty had given the Nords back their precious Talos worship, but in the spirit of "giving the Thalmor something in return," the Emperor had upheld the ban on Daedric worship across the Empire of Cyrodiil.

"He is _not MY_ Emperor," he hissed back, "And if I recall correctly, the _Vodahmin_ Covenant wasn't invited to _sign_ that treaty, were they?"

He bit back the accusation of outright betrayal. The _Vodahmin_ had _invaded_ the Summerset Isle directly, pulling back thousands of reinforcements that otherwise would have been deployed against Titus Mede II or Llewellyn Dragonborn. And after those two warriors had secured their victory, they had turned around and signed a separate peace treaty with the Dominion, one that ceded vast tracks of territory back to the Empire. The newly-formed Covenant, however, had been left out in the cold, and only by an ingenious stolen march _through_ the Soul Cairn plane of Oblivion had saved the army from the combined forces of the Dominion and the Empire trapping and massacring them to the last vampire.

But since no blow had _actually_ been exchanged between the _Vodahmin_ and Imperial armies, a technical and uneasy truce still existed between the two powers, maintained by the peace agreement between Skyrim's High King Llewellyn Dragonborn and Tala Niwot, High Mother of the Vodahmin.

"They are _on our land_ ," Irileth was saying now. "And they will suffer the High King's Justice."

"Funny," Movarth snorted, and then moved the mask aside to spit at the dirt at their feet. " _I'm_ on your land, and _I'm_ an avid worshipper of Molag Bal, Prince of Vampires."

The two captains stared challenges back and forth across each other.

"Are you _sure_ there's no exceptions to the Dragonborn's… justice?" he asked slowly.

Irileth looked back at her small patrol, and then at the party behind Movarth. Numbers-wise, they were nearly even, but there was no way of knowing how many more vampires or Foresworn tribesmen may be hiding in the brush around them, thanks to their new mottled 'war-cloaks', with branches and grass woven into the cloth itself to blend flawlessly into the undergrowth.

And how many of those hidden figures would hold those infernal Dwemer Crossbows, which could out-fire the Whiterun Hold soldiers' bows four shots to one?

Eyes snapped back to the vampire Warden, and a decision was made.

"Another time," she said in low promise. "And see to it that you remove them and yourselves from the Jarl's holdings by sunset."

Without waiting for a reply, she jerked her horse aside, and made a signal for the column to fall in behind her. Falling into a line two abreast, the rest of the party followed, lances moving to the at-rest position, and bows being unstrung and replaced back in their hide slings behind the horsemen.

Movarth made an elaborate bow of mockery to the fading column, and then turned back to the giant figure of the Minotaur.

"Can you speak the Common Tongue?" he asked. Belhar snorted, and then slowly shook his head.

"Well, you can understand it well enough," Movarth shrugged, and then gestured towards the northwest. "Follow us, and we will see your people safely into Covenant territory. Then we can talk about a place for you to settle your folk."

The towering figure cocked a head at the vampire, and then went to go to one knee before him. Movarth caught his arm and pulled him back upright.

"Not to me, boyo," he said gently, shaking his head. "Save your kneeling for our Queen Mother, Lady Tala. It's her orders I'm following, and her good graces you have to thank for your people's lives today."

The horned head nodded, and then the party set off at a brisk trot, several eyes still firmly fixed on the now-distant column of horsemen.

"Hongi," Movarth barked, "Arctos!"

Two Reach tribesmen came running.

"One of you take a message to New Hroldan," he said. "Inform the Queen of what happened here today. The other heads to Valthume. Tell Mother Maidus that we have more refugees coming in, and who exactly they are."

Both Foresworn made their salutes and then set off at a sprint for where the patrol had left their mounts. Sabre cats made more dangerous mounts to be sure, but they also made quicker time over the rocks and valleys of the southern half of the Reach.

Movarth quickened his pace to fall in next to the Minotaur chieftain, and then clasped a hand on the massive shoulder.

"Welcome to the _Vodahmin_ , my friend," he said genially. "Welcome _Home._ "

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **So it begins.  
** **As always, your thoughts/ suggestions/ constructive criticism are always welcome in the reviews, or my PMs.** **  
**

 **ROCK ON, my friends!**

 **-Tusken1602**


	2. Chapter 2: Bandits and Bargains

***LIAR'S RETREAT*  
THE REACH  
VODAHMIN COVENANT **

"Fall back! Fall back to the cave!"

Rahd Longhammer stumbled backward, reeling from the blow. The Argonian on the other side of the wall leapt over, sweeping both swords forward in a flashy display. He merely drew his dagger, paused and… _now_.

The thrust carried his blade through the lizardman's parry, and the Argonian went down with a sound like someone had punched him in the short ribs. Before he could pull the blade free, however, another figure came up the ladder and over the wall. _This_ one was a smaller figure, slight, but the armor he was clad in was black as night, and polished to a mirror shine.

 _Daedric Armor,_ some part of his mind informed him. _Who in the gods' names has Daedric Armor?_

The figure swung, and Rahd released his dagger, leaving it in his fallen foe, and stepped out of the path of the ridiculously-oversized mace's swing. The _THUMP_ that the mace made when it hit the ground told him he had made the smart decision. Desperate, he reached a hand backwards and his grip found what he was looking for: the handle of the warhammer that had given him his name. He yanked it free and spun it above his head, the warhammer coming to rest at the attacker's face. But by now, there were five dark figures coming over the wall, each with sword and shield at the ready.

"Fall back!" he roared again over his shoulder, and made to follow what remained of his company. If they could get to the mouth of the cave, they could close the entrance there. Then their enemy's superior numbers would count for nothing. Then they could…

 _FUS RO DAH!_

The wave of energy struck him between the shoulder-blades, tossing him head over heel. Dazed, he came up to his feet, still conscious enough to swing at the first two figures running at him with upraised weapons. He felt bone break beneath his swing, and the second figure's warcry was cut off with a strangled grunt.

 _What in the name of Oblivion WAS that?_

Then there was the first enemy again, coming at him with that Mace and… _was that a staff?_

 _Mage_ , came the answer from his subconscious again, and he thanked Shor for the warding he had placed into his armor. It had been expensive, but it had saved his life more than once. But no spell came from the tip of the long weapon, and no magic words escaped… _her_ lips. Yes, she was definitely a woman, he could see now, but she was coming on to engage him weapon-to-weapon.

 _Foolish girl_ , he grinned, tasting the blood on his teeth. She should have been smart and held back for her companions to engage with her, or at least held him at bay with a longer weapon. Anything that came within arms-reach while he held Longhammer was… was just dead, plain and simple.

"SOVNGARDE TAKE YOU!" he bellowed, swinging the weapon in a wide arc that no Man, Mer, or Beast had ever succeeded in blocking or surviving.

But this time, the slender figure closed with him, and swung her comparatively-small mace in an intercepting arc that met his weapon.

 _CAH-CHUNNNNNNNNG Piiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing._

With a bone-grating jolt, the two weapons met… and only hers was intact for a second swing. Rahd Longhammer was staring in incredulous horror and disbelief at his shattered weapon in his hands, and never saw the second blow coming.

* * *

"Bandit trash…" Skoberth Black-song grunted, rolling over a still-groaning body to deliver the mercy-stroke.

"Now, now," Tala sighed, shaking her hair out after removing her helmet. "They put up quite a good fight, all things considered. If they had made it to the caves, we might have even had a _harder_ time rooting them all out."

"Still, hardly worth our time," Borkul grunted, pulling a silver torc from the arm of one of the fallen bandits.

"The settlers at Hamugstahl would say different," Tala replied. "This lot has been harassing their shipments for weeks now. We've just been too busy with the border patrols to do anything about it… until now."

"My Queen!"

The shout drew Tala and her entourage to the young vampiress turning over a body. The bronze gleam of Dwarven metal gleamed even in the fading light. All the faces grew grim.

"How the _Daedra_ …?" Skoberth hissed.

"Deserter from the army, perhaps," Tala shrugged, picking up the Dwarven Crossbow, examining the weapon closely. "Though, given the lack of care given the weapon, I'd say it's more likely that they took it from one of the caravan guards they've ambushed."

"Troubling," Borkul the Beast shook his head. The Warden of the North was charged with keeping the peace of the Reach, and the thought of bandits that might be as well-armed as his patrols was worrisome. "We'll have to increase the size of each patrol and caravan, at least for now."

"Not if we make a strong enough example," Tala's laughter startled the assembled group. "Assemble the bodies and hang them by their heels along the roadside. Let the people know what happens to petty bandits in the _Vodahmin_ Covenant."

Borkul's grin beneath the Mask of Zahkriisos was downright predatory. "As my Queen commands."

A dark Redguard figure clad in black and scarlet gestured towards a row of kneeling and bound figures. "And what of the prisoners, my queen?"

Tala cast her eye down the row of figures.

"Hail Sithis."

Nazir grinned as many of the survivors began pleading, whining, or openly weeping. Their guards, all of whom wore black hoods covering their faces, drew daggers and swift, effortless motions, drew them across the prisoners' throats. Within moments, they were lying as still as the rest of the corpses in the makeshift fort.

The door to the interior of the mountain passageways opened, and a tiny figure walked out, followed by a number of likewise diminutive figures. Each of them were glad in roughly-made armor and armed with crude throwing spears. A few of them, however, were grasping iron and steel daggers, wearing the weapons on their hips like full-sized swords.

"We fight," the figure of the Riekling chief rasped. "We help Dark Lady. No more bad Nords."

"You and your people have fought valiantly, Chief Bogwog-throgdog," Tala nodded, giving a short bow to the gathered tribe, who tittered appreciatively. "What do you think of this place?"

The Riekling cast a critical eye around at the log-timber walls, the iron door, and the passageways it guarded.

"Strong place," he said finally. "Good place. Much room."

"Then kneel, Strong Chief," Tala stated gravely, replacing the Mace of Molag Bol on her back, and expanding the Rose of Sanguine to its full length. The Riekling went slowly to both knees before the High Mother of the _Vodahmin_ , who placed the long staff on his shoulder.

"I, Queen Tala Niwot of the _Vodahmin_ Covenant, do grant unto Chief Bogwog-throgdog and his people the holding of…" she paused to glance around her. "Riekling's Retreat, to hold forever, both him and the Riekling chiefs who follow."

She tapped the Riekling chief on the shoulder, and then brought her staff up to her side.

"You will hold this stronghold for your people, undisturbed in the name of the Queen's Peace," she continued, "And if the Black Banner is raised, you and your warriors will fight in the ranks of the _Vodahmin,_ in the name of the Queen's War."

"We fight," Bogwog-throgdog grinned, showing a row of pointed teeth. "We serve. Boar-Rider Tribe follow Bogwog. Bogwag follow Dark-Lady."

"So mote it be," Tala nodded in approval, and then gestured to the Covenant fighters to follow her out of the Rieklings' new home, bearing the bodies of the fallen bandits.

"It beggars imagination how those… _little_ creatures made it all the way from Solstheim," Serana shook her head. "Looking at their coracles, you would have sworn they wouldn't have floated in a puddle."

"Folk will brave a great many things to escape extermination," Tala stated sorrowfully. "Over the past year, we've had Minotaurs from Cyrodiil, Centaurs from Valenwood, what few giants that have managed to survive in Skyrim…and every Daedric worshipper in Tamriel, probably.

"They're not even all Daedric worshippers," Serana marveled, "The Minotaurs are fanatic followers of the _Aedra_ , for Sithis' sake."

"And the centaurs worship the Old Ways, just like the Forsworn," nodded Tala, "But they don't fit the acceptable fold of Man, Mer, and Beast-men that the Empire and Dominion have drawn up. They _look like_ monsters, therefore they must _be_ monsters."

"And it's precisely why the _Vodahmin_ Covenant is so important," Serana replied, an arm wrapping around her lover for a quick hug before they arrived at the place where they had left their horses. Tala flicked her wrist, and the otherworldly form of Arvak arose from the maelstrom of Soul Cairn magic.

"Show off," Serana scoffed, but the smile on her face belied her words. Tala mounted her horse, and then turned to the long figure still unmounted.

"We could always find you a horse, Teyrn'garwch," she said to the Dremora warrior. "You could _stay_ in this realm, you know."

"Teyrn'garwch is serving a prison sentence, Lady," the servant of Sanguine bowed, "Not vacationing."

With a blur of Conjuration magicka, he vanished, his essence returning to the flower at the top of the Rose of Sanguine.

"All these years," Serana grinned, "And he's still as grumpy as the first day his master gave him to us."

"No," Tala giggled, "I think he's definitely mellowed. We might be breaking through to him."

"Shall we escort you back to the capital, your Majesty?" Borkul the Beast asked. Tala's face grew contemplative, and then shook her head.

"No, Borkul," she answered. "You must return to Hamugstahl and keep a close watch on the border with Solitude. I don't like the new fortress the High King has built at Dragon Bridge, and I would ensure that no more of his spies skulk across our border with impunity."

"As you command," the giant orc nodded, and waved an arm forward. The _Vodahmin_ column separated from the main body at a slow trot, turning northward along the road. The remainder of the party were all in glossy Daedric armor, their horses likewise clad in Dwarven-metal _barding_ , protecting their chest and face. In war, the Royal Cataphracts were the heavy horsemen designed to be able to meet even the Whiterun heavy cavalry in a head-on fight.

"A fine day, all in all," Tala crowed, sighing contentedly as she waved them southward, back towards the capital. "A fine day, indeed."

* * *

 ***JEHANNA***  
 **HIGH ROCK**  
 **VODAHMIN COVENANT**

"WHERE IS IT!?"

Royal servants scattered before the wrath of Telstar, king of the city of Jehanna. The young man scattered papers and inkwells, overturning tables and chairs in his search of the royal chambers.

"WHERE'S IT GONE?" he roared again, with a voice deeper than would be expected from his young frame. "I'LL CRUCIFY THE THIEF WHO'S TAKEN IT!"

"My king?" one of the older servants, braver than the rest, asked. "Your servants might assist the king, if he would deign to tell us what he was looking for… _urkgh!"_

The servant's sentence was cut off by the iron vice-grip of the young king, clasped around his throat.

"MY… mask, you fool!" Telstar hissed, and his eyes were wild and unhinged. "What have you done with my MASK?"

"It… it was placed in the armory, along with the rest of your war-gear," the servant managed between wheezing gasps, "It was… it was done by _your order_ , lord. Do you not rememb-"

"BAH!" Telstar _hurled_ the man across the room with a strength that a young boy of his size _should_ not have possessed, disappearing down the hallway before the luckless servant even hit the far wall with a sickening crunch of flesh and unyielding stone.

Telstar's vision clouded red, and his breath came in sharp, painful gasps as he _ran_ down the hallways of his fortress, with only one goal running over and over in his mind:

 _Have to find it. Have to find it. Must keep it safe. She gave it to me. She gave it to ME. I MUST HAVE IT. Have to keep it safe. Have to keep it safe for her. Have to find it. Have to find it. Must keep it safe. She gave it to me. She gave it to ME. I MUST HAVE IT. Have to keep it safe. Have to keep it safe for her. Have to find it. Have to find it. Must keep it safe. She gave it to me. She gave it to ME. I MUST HAVE IT. Have to keep it safe. Have to keep it safe for her. Have to find it. Have to find it. Must keep it safe. She gave it to me. She gave it to ME. I MUST HAVE IT. Have to keep it safe. Have to keep it safe for her._

 _WHERE IS IT!?_

The poor guards at the Armory's doors had only time to fling themselves aside before the giant doors were _kicked_ open and Telstar found himself in front of the gold-enameled wardrobe that held the suit of Dwarven Armor that he wore in times of war. Flinging open the door, he frenziedly searched for a half-second before hands closed around the smooth, carved wooden surface of the Dragon Priest Mask of Rahgot.

Throwing the hood attached to the mask over his head, he placed the carved surface over his own features, and felt the red, frantic, rage-fueled panic subside, along with the beat of his heart.

 _I've found it. I've got it. Praise Queen Tala.  
I've found it. I've got it. Praise Queen Tala.  
I've found it. I've got it. Praise Queen Tala. _

Slowly, he turned back towards his throne room, a hand half-coming up to assure himself that his most precious possession, the priceless gift given to him by Tala the Beautiful, _Tala the Perfect,_ Tala the _Best-Beloved,_ still rested on his face.

* * *

 _Two Masks given to the hand of Women  
Rulers of Land and Sea._

 _Four Masks given to hand of Mer  
Rulers by the Queen's Decree._

 _Six Masks given to the hand of Men  
_ _To Aid the Queen's Design._

 _All Masks carved with secret Runes  
_ _To twist and warp the Mind._

 _All shall bow before the Queen!  
All shall bow before the Wolf!  
_ _A Covenant led by the Will of One  
O'er the Mountains, the Desert, and Gulf. _

* * *

**Author's Note:**

 **And so we get a quick glimpse of what Tala and Co. have been up to on the other side of the border, and how exactly she and the Wolf Queen intend on keeping their vassals in line.**

 **My thanks to everyone who has been patient with this story and its updates, and all the supportive PMs I've received over the past couple weeks. I wish you all a happy 2019, and hope that you'll join me for this little adventure in the Skyrim Fandom.**

 **As always, please leave your thoughts/suggestions/constructive criticisms in the reviews below! They are the fuel that keep my imagine fired up, and inspire me to continue writing, even if it's a simple "Good job, I enjoyed it."**

 **Rock On, my friends!**

 **-Tusken1602**

* * *

Reviewer Responses:

NotRevan – I very much doubt Lewis will be _sharing_ this technological advantage with Tala, considering she hasn't shared any of _hers_ with him. And the state of 'not-quite-war' that exists between the Empire and Covenant.

JimmyHall24 –Gunpowder does NOT automatically equal victory in any conflict.

tylermech66 – I KNOW, RIGHT! But you're not given the option of trying to make friends with goblins, or other monsters (with the sole exception of the Rieklings in _Dragonborn_ ).

lifesinthemind, Umbrardor, Draco Oblivion – ARMS RACE FTW, or at least as soon as Tala is _aware_ that the Empire (or rather, the Nords) have gunpowder.

ranma hibiki – that is correct about the Minotaurs, but they look like monsters to Man and Mer, and don't speak like normal people, therefore they must not BE people… right?

badkidoh, Trikomi98, Luadog, jdboss1, jonathan11197, Univers One, Guest - Thanks so much for your kind words and support! I appreciate it!

EE-RAH!


	3. Chapter 3: Broken Dreams

***DRAGON KEEP*  
HELGEN  
SKYRIM **

"What do you mean, NO?"

Isran's voice was equally heavy-laden with rage and disbelief. The throne room of the Dragon Keep was full of gold-cloaked individuals, and all of them, even the man seated on the throne on the far side of the room, looked supremely uneasy.

"I mean I will not invade the Vodahmin Covenant, Isran," Llewellyn Dragonborn answered. "I will not plunge Tamriel into war."

"I'm not asking you to," Isran hissed. "I'm asking you to help me _exterminate_ vermin."

"Vermin who happen to be led by the _mother_ of Queen Tala's Royal Consort," Tolan scoffed, " _That_ is exactly what you are asking the High King to do."

"If they defend vermin, they deserve to _die with them_ ," Isran growled again.

"Queen Tala has ordered that the Vampires be allowed to live unmolested within the boundaries of her kingdom," Llewellyn answered, "That all the _Vodahmin_ dwell in peace and be left in peace."

" _Peace_?" Isran spat, "At what cost? They are leeches that walk upright. How many farms must be raided, how many _children_ must go missing before you all wake up and _do_ something?!"

"Exactly how many farms along the border have been burned?" Arch-Mage Sarai Gellarus answered, from her seat. "Exactly how many children have been kidnapped from Whiterun, Hjaalmarch, or Solitude? From Falkreath?"

Isran only clenched his fists and growled in answer.

"The vampires have, against all expectations, _kept_ their end of the bargain," the Arch-Mage continued, "They abandoned Volkihar Castle when we asked them to, for Aedra's sake, in the name of peace. They have refrained from touching or molesting a _single_ Nord on Skyrim's side of the border, in the name of peace."

"And if they were _Nordic_ men, women, and children imprisoned in their cellars as living chattel," Florentius Baenius asked slowly, rising to his feet to stand next to Isran, "and not Altmer, would you be so quick to leave them alone, _in the name of peace_?"

"My friends," an old man rose to his feet, looking around the room. Even Isran inclined his head respectfully; when Esbern offered advice, only the most foolish ignored it. The Commander of the King's Blades cleared his throat and continued:

"Skyrim and her people have suffered much. The Great War, followed by the Markarth Incident, followed by the Stormcloak Rebellion, the Coming of the World-Eater and the Dragon Crisis, the Vodahmin Rising and this latest Great War. Now, we've had _five_ years of peace. FIVE YEARS where not a single mother has had to bury a son, or a daughter has had to lay her father to rest. Not a single harvest burned, or a single unmarked grave. We must carefully consider our actions, before we throw away such a rare commodity as peace."

"So in the name of _peace_ ," Isran stated as Esbern sat down, "you will abandon the survivors of Alinor to slavery and death?"

"They were captives taken in _war_ ," Llew replied, almost unwillingly, "and I am only the High King of Skyrim. I cannot dictate to the _Vodahmin_ Covenant on how they should treat their prisoners. So yes, Isran: in the name of peace, I will uphold the _oath_ I made on the field of Rorikstead."

Isran slowly reached up, and deliberately unbuckled the golden cloak from his shoulders.

" _Isran_ ," Tolan hissed, half-rising in his chair. "Don't be a fool, man!"

"Such a peace is not worth defending," the commander of the Dawnguard answered gravely. Another figure rose, and Gunmar Troll-Tamer unfastened his own golden cloak.

"No man should live in chains," he nodded, "not even gilded ones."

Isran turned away and strode from the hall, calmly and deliberately, followed by the figures of Gunmar, Sorine Jurard, and Florentius Baenius. Two armored Blades began to bar the group's way.

"No," Llewellyn Dragonborn said, rising to his feet. "Let them pass."

He cast his eyes around the rest of the table.

"Anyone else who wishes to join them, they are free to do so," he stated evenly. "This is Skyrim, not the bloody Dominion. Each of you are free men and women here, and those cloaks are not shackles."

A few other figures rose: Durak, Celann, Agmaer, and a few other veteran Dawnguard such as Ingjard and Beleval. These also shed their gold cloaks and followed their leaders out the door. As it closed behind them, there was a very long silence, and Llewellyn sank back down in his chair, placing his head in his hands.

"There are a great many things on the other side of the border that we may not approve of, my King," Sarai Gellarus spoke up finally. "But that is why there is a border between us and them. If we take it upon ourselves to settle _all the_ injustices of the world, we will die of exhaustion before the month is out, and there will _still_ be some land where a tyrant rules, or knees are bent. We cannot solve _all_ of Nirn's problems, nor should we try. We are the defenders of Skyrim, and we have defended it well, against all who would do it harm."

There were nods and murmurs of agreement all around. Llewellyn nodded also, but the grave look on his face did not fade.

"So that still leaves us with a problem, Father," Prince Alesan said slowly. "What are we going to do about _them_?"

Down in the courtyard, Isran and the others were pulling their mounts towards the gates getting ready to ride back into the town proper and back towards Fort Dawnguard in the Velothi Mountains.

"Lord Isran!"

Isran paused and turned towards the older man coming towards him.

"Did you really mean what you said in there?" he asked the commander of the Dawnguard, who nodded in answer.

"Every word."

"You're really going to attack the vampires, even though that means the _Vodahmin_ will attack you?"

"We have a duty to protect Tamriel," Florentius said, swinging up into the saddle. " Arkay says there are no addendums or special circumstances to that."

"Then we have a common purpose," said a Redguard woman, stepping out of the stables and into the light of the courtyard. "And a common enemy."

Isran looked from one figure to the other.

"Who are you?" he asked finally.

"My name is Raerek," the old man answered, bowing slightly. "This is Faleen. And we have been waiting for someone like you, Isran."

* * *

 ***WHITE-GOLD TOWER*  
IMPERIAL CITY**

 **CYRODIIL**

Servetus Tullius, _Imperator_ of the Legions of the Empire, swung from the saddle, the mud and dirt of the road still covering his armor. It had been a hard ridge from the Hammerfell border forts, but occasion was grave enough to warrant it. As servants scrambled to open the doors in front of him, a tall man in splendid green and silver robes met him, falling in step alongside him.

"Amaund," Tullius nodded in greeting, "How is he?"

"Worse," Amaund Motierre answered. "The mages and the physicians both say he will not live out the night."

 _"Fuck_."

Exhaustion from the long travel ripped the word from Tullius' unguarded lips, but if the Elder Council member beside him was offended at the word, he did not show it. Rather, he nodded in agreement at the sentiment:

Titus Mede, second of his Name, Ruler of the Colovian Mede Dynasty, Protector of the Ruby Throne and Emperor of the Tamrielic Empire… was dying.

The two men entered the wide atrium outside the Emperor's personal quarters. Surrounding the marble walls was every member of the Elder Council. The best and the brightest (and certainly the wealthiest) from the Empire Titus Mede II had expanded all stood together, in close huddles of frenzied whispers.

Bosmer, Dunmer and Khajiit.

Nords and Imperials.

A dark-scaled Argonian ambassador stood in the corner, as did the Altmer ambassador from the Dominion Remnant. Tullius cursed silently; this was _certainly_ the sort of thing that should have been kept away from their eyes and ears. But there was no helping it now and having them thrown out would only exacerbate matters and confirm everyone's gravest fears: that their Emperor was dying, and there were no heirs to succeed the old man.

The situation was, unfortunately enough, hardly unique in the Empire's history: the hastily-arranged, politically-motivated marriage of Titus' youth had produced no heirs. After his wife had died delivering their third stillborn child, there had come crisis after crisis: the Great War, the Redguard Secession, the Stormcloak Rebellion, all the way up to the Second Great War and the Field of the Cloth of Gold. Quite frankly, there had been no _time_ for any formal marriage arrangements, though there had been plenty of young… _companions_ and nameless entertainers over the years. The resulting offspring had all been secured good tutors, homes, and positions, as well as the surname "Medeborn," but none of them had been formally acknowledged or adopted.

Two armored soldiers saluted as the two men entered the Emperor's private chamber. Tullius drew in a short breath and stifled another curse as he took in the thin, frail body that lay on the bed, comparing it to the hale and hearty Emperor of only five years ago, at the Field of the Cloth of Gold. Around the outside wall of the room, a circle of priestesses of Kynareth were constantly casting healing spells. The High Priestess folded her hands and joined the two newcomers in the room.

"Chancellor, Imperator," she greeted, her voice grave. "I swear upon the goddess, every spell, every potion has been utilized. By now… all we can do is ensure that he is in no pain."

Tullius nodded at the grave news, and placed his hands on his hips.

"I thank you, High Priestess," he said at last, "But I need you to _stop_."

"General?" Motierre looked as shocked and horrified as the High Priestess in that moment.

"The spells are numbing his mind as well as his nerves," Tullius answered. "If the Emperor is dying, there is business that must be taken care of first."

"I can't…" the older woman stammered.

"I can _order_ it, High Priestess," Tullius growled, but then he made his voice soften. "I don't want to, but if it means ensuring the succession and avoiding Civil War, then so be it."

Understanding came into the religious woman's eyes, and she nodded slowly.

"Alright… but for only as briefly as possible."

"Of course," Amaund reassured her.

Tullius and Amaund took their places on either side of the frail-looking king as the chanting and spellwork slowly came to a stop. The old man laying on the bed stirred, and the eyes fluttered open. The breathing, which had been so calm and peaceful a moment ago, began to shallow and come in sharp, rasping gasps.

"My Emperor…" Tullius said softly, "Can you hear me?"

"Tullius?" The voice was reed-thin, and strained.

"My Emperor," Amaund Motierre broke in, his voice a thin wheedle compared to Tullius'. "Who will chose to succeed you?"

Confusion and incomprehension warred on the thin face.

"S…suc…succeed?" he asked, clearly confused.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Amaund repeated, "who should be crowned in your place, as your successor?"

"In my place…" Eyes darted back and forth and cold sweat broke out on the dying man's brow.

"DAMMIT TITUS," Tullius broke out, his emotions getting the better of him. "To whom do you leave your empire?!"

Suddenly, the frail figure on the man bolted upright, startling everyone present, including the veteran warrior. A hand, stronger than a dying man's should have been, gripped the armored shoulder, and the voice that spoke was hard, and full of purpose.

"To… the Dragon."

The free hand lifted towards the dais, and pointed to the royal Crown, perched atop the Ruby Throne.

"See it done, my friend," the Emperor of Cyrodiil continued, "Protect…"

And the voice faltered.

"Protect… my Empire."

Then suddenly the grip loosened, and the voice failed, and Tullius only just caught the Emperor's body as he fell backwards towards the pillows. Gently, he laid the body of his Emperor upon the bed, crossing the lifeless arms across his chest, and closing the lifeless eyes.

"Is… is he…?" Amaund asked, seemingly unable to complete the question.

"He is dead," Tullius nodded, and the finality of the words sank heavy on the old warrior's soul: Titus Mede II, Titus Mede the Lawgiver, Titus Mede the Conqueror, was dead.

"Amaund," Tullius said slowly. "Secure the crown and send that crowd of vultures outside away. I'm going to prepare the horses."

"Horses?"

"Yes, horses," Tullius repeated. "We have a long ride in front of us."

"To… to where?" Amaund asked, clearly not understanding.

"Skyrim, of course," Tullius answered, trying his best to keep his irritation in check. "You heard the Emperor's last words: the crown is to go to the Dragonborn. As High Chancellor of the Elder Council, you are now the Potentate _in absentia_ of a crowned ruler. And Llewellyn Dragonborn is, by final royal decree, by _Imperium Edictum Mortuorum,_ the new Emperor of Cyrodiil."

"So it would seem," the man nodded nervously, but said nothing else. Tullius sighed, and turned to look him fully in the eye, using all his willpower to _not_ place his hand on the hilt of the sword on his belt.

"You secure the crown," he repeated. "And I will secure our transportation. We can get to Skyrim and back again within a fortnight and secure the succession with minimal unrest. But every second we delay courts disaster."

"Right then," the little man nodded again, seemingly goaded at last into action. "Let's not delay a moment."

The next two hours were a flurry of motion for Tullius, taking him back to the days of campaigning in Skyrim and Valenwood. Provisions, fresh horses, and men he could trust were gathered together with all speed. Finally, they were all in the Royal stables, with one glaring absence.

"Where is Lord Motierre?" Tullius asked the prelate on duty. "He should have been here hours ago.'

"I don't know, sir," the officer answered, "I haven't seen him since we began preparations to leave."

"What in Oblivion could be keeping the man?" Tullius muttered, and a cold chill went up his spine. "Something's not right. Legate, you're with me. The rest of you, stand ready."

Tullius and a small group of legionnaires made their way back through the now-mostly deserted palace. The atrium was entirely empty now, but then Tullius made his way back into the Emperor's quarters.

The Throne Room was filled with Penitus Oculatus standing at-arms. The body of the Emperor was now shrouded, covered with a beautifully-woven tapestry, depicting the events of his rule. Three figures though, immediately caught his eye. The first turned towards him, a fist coming up in a salute against armor.

"Imperator Tullius."

"Commander Moro," Tullius said slowly. The commander of the Penitus Oculatus was adorned in full resplendent armor, almost ornamental in design, but the sword that hung on his hip was fully functional.

"Lord Medeborn."

Tiberius Medeborn, he was not the oldest, or in Tullius' opinion, the wisest of Titus Mede II's bastards, but he _was by far_ the most ambitious. He had served his father well, by all accounts, in the latest war, though without any singular distinction.

But now it _was_ he that sat upon the Ruby Throne, with the figure of the High Chancellor at the foot of the dais.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Rejoice, Imperator," Tiberius Medeborn answered. "Yes, our beloved Emperor is dead. But the Empire is not left bereft or lordless."

The Penitus Oculatus drew their swords and saluted, including the figure of their Commander.

"Long Live the Emperor."

Tullius glared daggers at the figure of Amaund Motierre. "Lord Motierre," he stated evenly. "the Crown leaves with _us_ , as we go to fulfill the Emperor's last command."

Motierre paused, glancing nervously at the white-haired veteran on the one side of the room, the rows of armed guards lining the room, and the young man sitting on the throne on the far side. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped towards the throne, away from the man whose hand slowly moved towards his sword.

"I'm sorry, Imperator," he said slowly. "But the wheels of Fate are in motion, and they cannot be stopped. Long… Long live the Emperor."

He knelt down, holding out the Ruby Crown towards the seated figure. Commander Maro extended his hand to take the crown.

"By what right do you claim the throne?" Tullius scoffed, causing the man to step back in alarm. "By the blood of your father, who named the High King of Skyrim his successor? Or by the right of your _mother,_ who died alone in a whorehouse in the Dock District?

Dark fury clouded the face of Medeborn, but he kept it from his voice as he answered evenly:

"The throne is _mine_ by right, as is the crown. They do not belong to a barbarian, _sheep-fucking_ barbarian in the north. Commander, bring me the Crown."

"The choice is simple, Servetus," Commander Moro grinned, stepping forward once again. "You, the High Chancellor, and the High Priestess are the only ones who witnessed the Emperor's delirious final words. The Chancellor is with us. The High Priestess… has met with an unfortunate accident. Who _exactly_ the Emperor left in charge is only a matter of _your_ word against ours."

It was only then that Tullius noticed the blood stains in the corner of the room, with drag marks showing where a body had been dragged away.

"And what say you… Imperator?" Tiberius Medeborn asked smugly.

Tullius' fist clenched and he swallowed hard.

"I say… _Testudo!"_

With a flash, his sword was in his hand, and he was dashing forward, a dozen Legionary shields around him.

"KILL THEM!" the young man screeched, half-rising from his throne. The Penitus Oculatus agents came forward swords at the ready. But these men were _secret police_ , glorified thugs, and the legionnaires they faced were veterans of many wars..

"LEGIONNAIRES!" roared Tullius, " _Pila!_ "

The twelve men hurled the thin spearshafts forward, and seven men went down, four more hurling aside ruined shields or shrieking as the spearheads pinned their shields to their arms. Moro grabbed the High Chancellor, hurling the man between himself, and the _pila_ that had speeding for his torso. The weapon struck with a solid _whack_ , sounding for all the world a slap.

"We… had a deal…" Amaund Motierre gurgled, looking incredulously at Moro and then down at the shaft that had punched through his chest. The former High Chancellor's eyes rolled back in his head, and he crumpled like a rag doll. The golden circlet, however, fell from limp fingers, tumbling down the steps of the dais, to land at Tullius' feet. Tiberius' face went purple with rage as the Imperator stooped to take the symbol of rulership into his hand.

"KILL THEM ALL!" he screeched again, making as if he meant to throw himself into the fray, but Moro seized his new Emperor around the chest, dragging him bodily from the room. By now, however, more Penitus Oculatus were pouring in, some of them armed with bows. A legionary on Tullius' left went down, gurgling as a shaft pierced his throat. Tullius bent and caught up the man's shield, plugging the hole in the solid line of steel.

"Fall back!" he cursed even as the order left his lips. _Maybe_ they could reach the bastard and kill him. But none of his men would survive such an attack, and _then_ where would the Empire be? _No_ , he would obey his Emperor's dying wish, and get this crown north to Skyrim.

North to the new Emperor.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Well, here is the setup for the second arc of this story. Lewis' happy little family is proving to be anything but, and the demands of the kingdom and the demands of the various factions are proving to be hard to reconcile.**

 **And on the other side of Tamriel, the idyllic dream of Titus Mede II begins to fray at the seams…**

 **As always, please leave your thoughts/suggestions/constructive criticisms in the reviews below, even if it's a simple "Good job, I enjoyed it."**

 **Rock On, my friends!**

 **-Tusken1602**

* * *

Reviewer Responses:

Tech Warrior Ender – You are 100 percent correct, my friend, in your analysis of Tala and the Daedra. But at the risk of _being_ pessimistic, the moral high ground has never determined victory in the real world.

Bloodwolf432, Ascended Humanity, Cap'n Smurfy, JimmyHall24, The Perpetual Shadow, Guest – But the POWERS you get with the masks will surely be worth the trade... right?

NotRevan, GalacticHalfling, Dunnezeu – I would describe Tala as "ultimately practical." I WOULD describe Potema as "wonderfully evil." The balancing act will be tough to handle.

tylermech66 – Excellent suggestions, and yes, I am aware of shadveristy's videos. But I disagree with giving short species long pikes: they are ALWAYS going to be shorter than their enemies, so rather than try and meet their taller enemies on unequal ground, why not _embrace_ their size and use tactics and equipment that give _them_ the advantage (daggers for slitting ankles/throats, throwing spears to harass and then disappear back into the underbrush, etc.)?

Spartanzerg75 – No offense taken at all, my friend! Every story appeals to a different audience, so there's no need to be apologetic over being attracted to one story over another.

Wiwerse – Thanks for the suggestion. I was trying to go for "frenzied insanity" and I think it's very easy to overdo it. As for Falion, I'm honestly not sure how welcome he would be in Markarth, as his main achievement is the cure for vampirism, in a queendom that views it as a blessing, rather than a disease.

siddharth1998m, badkidoh, glix357, derpysauce – Thanks so much! I appreciate your support! Means a lot to me, truly.

EE-RAH!


	4. Chapter 4: New Volkihar

***NEW VOLKIHAR*  
(FORMERLY DEEP FOLK CROSSING)  
THE REACH  
VODAHMIN COVENANT**

"Have you made a connection with Nchuand-Zel yet?" Tala Niwot asked, looking at the work crews carrying baskets of earth and stone up from the cavern. Those were bound for the construction zones on the newly-constructed outer walls. The walls around the ancient Dwemer ruin were going up fast; much faster than Tala had thought possible. But then again, there were _hundreds_ of Altmer hands to move rock and carve stone, to say nothing of the paid laborers lending their skill and expertise to the project.

"Not yet," confessed Lady Valerica. "We have been focusing more on expanding and reopening the ancient chambers first, hoping to find a preexisting tunnel, perhaps."

Lord Vighar shifted, his face hidden by the Dragon Priest mask of Ahzidal.

"I have slave crews working from Nchudand-Zel's northernmost tunnels, my queen," he stated. "If we can connect tunnels between here and the Understone Keep…"

"We can move troops, supplies, and reinforcements from one side of the Reach to the other," nodded Tala. "And how is the state of the Redlines Wine?"

"Carefully rationed," Serana answered, "we currently have a six-month store in the cellars. Every slave donates two pints of blood every eight weeks, rotating in crews, as you ordered."

"A drained slave can give no more work or blood," Valerica nodded approvingly. "That is something Harkon could never grasp. Giving the _chattel_ sufficient time to recover, rather than just _butchering_ it like an ox, gives us both a source of sustenance, and an extra hand for the work."

"The rest of the coven is making the transition from Volkihar Castle well?" Tala asked, and Serana and her mother nodded.

"Father's ghost was a little _too_ present in those walls," Tala's lover shook her head.

"Agreed," Valerica nodded again, "If the Nords want that decrepit fortress, they are welcome to it."

"I think it's more that they _didn't_ want _us_ to have it," Vighar chuckled, "Rather than any great desire to have a castle in the north of Solitude."

"They have yet to place any sort of garrison there," Tala shrugged. "I'm pretty sure poor little Buffy took one look at the place, and then decided to try and burn the place down."

"My queen?"

All eyes turned towards Skoberth Black-song, who bowed deeply.

"Yes?" Tala murmured.

"He is here."

"Oh," Tala raised her eyebrows in remembrance. "Show him up at once."

"As you command."

A single figure approached the quartet standing on the balcony overlooking the sprawling worksite. Girolamo was one of the eldest of the Altmer taken captive from Alinor. The robe he wore was plain-looking, but also well-made and serviceable.

"Queen Tala," he bowed, "Thank you for seeing me."

His tone, while respectful, was devoid of any self-deprecating scraping or groveling, causing Tala's opinion of him to increase considerably, and she gave the barest of nods in acknowledgement

"Elder Girolamo," she said, "How are your people faring? Are any of them being mistreated or misused?"

"We are… as comfortable as our circumstances may allow," he answered, choosing his words carefully. Potema's cruel sense of humor curled Tala's lips upward. The poor mer was the chosen representative of a slave race, standing before the instrument of his people's enslavement and capture, the looter, sacker, and _invader_ of his homeland.

 **And in the middle of a vampire fortress, no less** , the Wolf Queen chuckled from the depths of Tala's mind. The ring she wore on her left finger was heavily runed in Illusion spells, concealing the blue/green change between Tala' s and Potema's control. After all, as far as the rest of Tamriel knew, Potema Septim was dead and exiled to the Soul Cairn.

"Speak then, Elder, and tell me your petition," she said slowly, drawing herself up as regally as she could. The Altmer bowed again, and then slowly went to both knees.

"My queen," he began, "It has now been five years since… we were taken in the war. Five years we have toiled and worked hard to repay your… _mercy_."

He paused, trying to gauge the reactions on the faces before him, but by the look on his face, he gleaned nothing from the blank stares given him. From the corner of her eye, Tala could see Serana take pity on the poor man and give him a ghost of a smile and an encouraging nod.

"There are many here among your… _servants_ , that would bring more gold and treasure into their queen's treasury, if the way is made available to them," Girolamo continued.

"Oh, _very well_ said," Tala chuckled, lifting her hands to clap softly. "The offer is intriguing to say the least. And tell me Girolamo: how would Altmer _slaves_ presume to do so?"

"There are many here from prominent families, my queen," the elder said softly. "Many of whom have relatives who might still be on the Summerset Isle. If the queen's Grace allows, we would ask leave only to _write_ to the survivors on Alinor, to see if there are those who may have survived the… most recent and lamentable hostilities."

" **To what end?"**

"Ransom, my queen," he answered without missing a beat. "That those who have the means may be reunited with their families, after paying a sum that might be acceptable in your eyes."

All eyes turned back to Tala, who stood with her hands on her hips, lips pursed in thought.

"There is merit in your suggestion," Tala nodded slowly. "And such decisions cannot be made overnight. But then again," she continued quickly as Girolamo's face fell, "A message cannot reach the Summerset Isle and back again overnight either."

She paused again, and then nodded in a decisive gesture.

"Very well, Girolamo. Have those that wish draft documents for their friends or families in Summerset Isle and deliver them to their overseers within a fortnight. I will ensure, on my word as a sovereign, that they are taken by ship to nearest Dominion harbor. As replies and offers of ransom return to Markarth, we will speak again."

The Altmer beamed happiness, relief, and joy as he bowed low, this time prostrating himself entirely on the floor.

"Thank you, my queen," he half-sobbed. "In the meantime, you will find no more motivated or loyal workers, I swear by the Eight."

Tala nodded her head and then made a shooing gesture to give the mer leave to go. He did, leaving in a half-run to deliver the good news to his fellow expatriates.

"That was neatly done, my love," Serana purred in her ear. "Though I wonder if the consequences would have been if you had _not_ agreed to their requests."

"Slaves are, at best, middling workers," Tala nodded. "A paid laborer will accomplish twice the work in a day, as he is motivated to better his own lot by working longer and better for more pay. Slaves, on the other hand, have _no_ such motivation to help their masters prosper, as that prosperity comes at the cost of their own liberties. I'm just giving them…"

"Hope," Lady Valerica grinned. "Rekindling the dream that one day they will survive their present circumstances to return home."

Tala was about to answer when suddenly there came a shout from the half-finished gate sentries, and the sharp, piercing cry of a horse's whinny split the air. The horse in question was blowing hard, sweat streaking in white foam down its body, and its rider looked just as haggard. He wore the red sash of a messenger, and Tala waved impatiently for him to be allowed through, then turned and made her way down the walkway to the courtyard, meeting the Foresworn halfway. The boy, for that was certainly what he was, swayed on his feet and the going to one knee was slightly more than a gesture of deep respect.

"High Mother," he panted, and he lifted a sealed tube with both hands, only the faintest quiver betraying his sheer exhaustion. "From Warden Borkul; he said to… he said that he is moving north as soon as he can muster his forces."

Tala glanced at the message tube, noting with a smile that a single black hair was still trapped in the sealed wax. It was a simple device, sure enough, but it was sufficient to show that no hand had tampered with the message since it had left the big Orc's hand. She tore it free and pulled the paper from the confines of the tube. The scrawl on the page wasn't Borkul's, she noticed, but the words were enough to send a cold chill down her spine:

* * *

 _Dawnguard moving in force towards Vodahmin border, in defiance of the High King's commands. They stopped overnight, camping outside of Morthal. Jarl Idgrod the Younger refused to join their cause directly, but did allow them to recruit from Haafingar Hold, and many fighters joined their ranks.  
I estimate their current numbers at three hundred infantry, sixty light horse, thirty heavy horse, and eighty archers.  
Be advised: more are coming in every day. _

_Force commanded by Isran the Blessed directly._

 _Raerek the Exile seen at the head of a company bearing the ram's head sigil of Old Markarth, Faleen Dark-sword in attendance. Believe him to be the financer of the Dawnguard's sudden movements._

 _The tavern is full of soldiers saying that the "Army of the Dawn" intends to recruit at Solitude, and then move towards the vicinity of Dragon Bridge. Believed intended target to be New Volkihar, and the remnants of the vampire clan there._

 _-L_

* * *

Tala smiled despite the grave news. That wench Laelette had, predictably, been allowed to return to her family, and had even been welcomed back by her neighbors after undergoing Falion's "cure" for her vampiric condition. Since that time, she had been an invaluable source of information from Skyrim in general, and Haafingar in particular. Over the past five years, many such individuals had been "rescued" from the vampires and were now sending a constant stream of information back to the _Vodahmin_ Covenant.

"What is your name?" Tala asked the messenger, turning back to matters immediately at hand.

"Halfeth, son of Hengist, my queen," the boy answered, straightening slightly in pride.

"You have served the Covenant and your queen well, Helfeth," Tala grinned down at him, causing a blush to spread across his cheeks. "Rest yourself and your mount. I have other messengers to bear Warden Borkul's orders back."

"To hear is to obey," the boy answered, rising to his feet. Tala nodded in added approval as the boy took the reins of his steed, leading it towards the stables. A good soldier made sure his horse was fed and rested, before following suit himself.

"Isran has apparently grown weary of the High King's leash," she said in a low voice to Serana, passing the letter to Vighar and Valerica. "He's got Raerek backing him financially, and they're actively recruiting an army."

"So it is war," Vighar rumbled softly.

"Can we not appeal to the Dragonborn?" Valerica asked, furrowing her brow. "Convince him to intervene, perhaps even _stop_ this army before they reach the border? Surely they would not lift arms against their own High King?"

"By the looks of things, and reading between the lines," Serana answered, looking at the paper herself now, "Isran and Raerek most likely are recruiting an army of 'vampire hunters', rather than setting themselves up as invaders of the Reach. That way, King Llewellyn can't strictly _forbid_ them from doing anything, due to the anti-Daedric laws the Empire has enacted. He and the Jarls are not doing anything to _directly_ support them, but they apparently aren't doing anything to directly _forbid_ them, either."

"Not if the High Asshole makes it clear that they're crossing the border as private citizens," Tala retorted, using one of her favorite descriptors of Skyrim's High King. "Then he gets the best of both worlds: if we slaughter them, then we've rid him of troublesome, warmongering subjects. If they somehow succeed in taking New Volkihar, he's not going to weep over more dead vampires."

"Plus, that would give Raerek a foothold from which to launch an attack to reclaim his nephew's seat in Markarth," nodded Valerica. "Poor, deluded fool."

"He's a fool with gold and now, an army to support his delusions," Tala replied. "That makes him a dangerous sort of fool. Vighar?"

"I can have my clan mobilized within a few days," the one-time jarl answered. "If it is vampires these bastards wish to fight, then by Bal, it's vampires they'll get. I'll send word to Venarus Vulpin and his band at Karthwasten, too."

"Send riders back to Icando and Kaie at Markarth," Tala rattled off to Skoberth, nodding in agreement to the Lord of the Undercity's suggestions. "And send a raven to Orsinium. Burguk is always looking for any opportunity for another fight."

The half-finished fortress exploded in redoubled activity as messengers saddled their mounts and warriors scrambled to re-secure their gear.

"Serana, I need you at Bruca's Leap," Tala continued. "Get everything ready for our arrival. I'm ordering everyone to muster _there_ for our main camp. Once that's done, we'll be in a position to shift in response to whatever the Dawnguard attempt."

"It will be done… _my queen_ ," Serana answered, stealing a quick kiss from her lover before turning back towards her own quarters to prepare her things. Tala looked around at the bustle around her, feeling a hand go towards the Rose, kept constantly at the small of her back.

"So… five years of peace and preparation," she said softly, her words lost in the cacophony of noise. "It was nice while it lasted, but so it ends…"

" **This is not an end, little Tala,"** Potema added, her wolfish grin growing on Tala's face. **"It is the glorious beginning of the next stage of our plans…"**

* * *

 ***DRAGON KEEP***  
 **HELGEN**  
 **SKYRIM**

"We crossed the border under cover of darkness, and then we made our way here."

Tullius looked across the table at Llewellyn Dragonborn, High King of Skyrim, who was staring intently at the crown on the table. The Jagged Crown he already wore was a stark contrast to the gilded Imperial crown. One was a helmet of war, the other was a gaudy symbol of authority. He reached slowly over, and tossed a scroll onto the table next to it. Tullius shot a look of question at Llewllyn before reaching to take it.

"That is an Imperial order from 'Emperor' Tiberius I, demanding that I turn you and the crown over to him, for judgement," the Dragonborn said calmly to his one-time superior officer. "Apparently, if I do so, he will _allow_ me to remain High King of Skyrim."

"How very generous of him," Tullius smirked as he read the flowery language veiling the threat beneath. "And your answer?"

"I have sent no answer," Llewellyn replied, "Which is, of course, an answer in itself."

Esbern pushed himself back from the table. "I take it then," the old man sighed, "you mean to fight this… Tiberius Mede."

"Mede _born_ ," Tullius hissed, "The fact that his mother was inconsiderate enough to get pregnant doesn't make him his father's heir."

"I was _found_ by an orphanage in _Riften_ , Tullius," Llewellyn interjected. "There's not a drop of royal blood in my veins, and yet you seem Oblivion-bent on making me Emperor."

"The fact that you _are_ Dragonborn clearly shows that you are _some_ sort of descendant of the Septim dynasty, Majesty," Esbern replied quickly.

Lewis Heron, from Dallas, Texas, only gave the Blades Commander a mirthless grin.

"Perhaps," was all he said aloud. "But the fact remains that I never wanted the Ruby Throne. But I will be damned before I turn over one of my oldest and dearest friends to some punk bastard who thinks he's Tiber Septim reborn."

"Then we must look to our defenses," General Rikke said, nodding at her former commander on the other end of the table. "The 9th legion is garrisoned in Bruma. I know their officers, I know their commanders. Arkay take me, I know their latrine attendants. I know they'll join us.

"Then write to them immediately, Rikke," Llewellyn nodded, "With the 9th and 12th with us, we'll have a good core around which to build an army."

"Send word to King Lleril Morvayn in Morrowind too, father," Prince Alesan added. His adopted father had begun more and more to include him in these Council meetings, and he was determined not to just sit silently. "He owes you, not only for his own life and hide but you championed their special allowance to worship Boethiah, Mephala, and Azura. He'll support you, without a doubt."

"He may be more concerned with the Argonians than coming west to help us," Sarai Gellarus stated grimly. "The remnants of the Dominion will support Tiberius, because they'll think he'll be easier to manipulate and control."

"And they'll be right," Tullius nodded in confirmation of the Arch-Mage's concerns. "Right now, I have no doubt that he's bartered away North Valenwood and Anequina in return for their own support. Or maybe he'll give Riverdale and High Chief Baajirra reassurances of their independence and get their support too."

"Galas will never side with anyone who has the Dominion's support," Sarai shook her head. "But I don't know about Baajirra. If North Valenwood is surrounded and threatened on all sides, I suppose Galas might not have a choice."

"Our list of allies grows thin," Llewellyn chuckled mirthlessly, and Sarai Gellarus shared his amusement at the refence only the two of them would understand.

"There is… another power that we could call upon," Commander Delphine said, speaking up for the first time. Only a momentary glance between them was needed for Llewellyn to understand who she meant.

"She _never_ would agree to it," Sarai objected, "Especially if you don't stop Isran from _invading_ her lands and attacking _her_ vassals."

"We have little choice," Llewellyn replied, almost bitterly. "Without the Covenant, the harsh fact remains that we are outnumbered. If Black Marsh joins with Tiberius, and Kelan-Tel has every indication and reason to do so, then he'll be marching north into Morrowind, who isn't strong enough to stop them alone, especially if the Argonians are reinforced from Elsweyr."

Llewellyn sighed as he moved more pieces around the map of Tamriel that lay spread out on the table.

"That means I have to dispatch forces to help them, which leaves me facing the united powers of Valenwood, Cyrodiil, and Summerset Isle alone."

"Morvayn might be able to _slow_ the Argonians down with the Dunmer Great Houses' levies," Rikke countered, but her expression was not hopeful. "He'll lose ground, certainly, but the lizards _will_ begin to feel the pressure if he retreats into the Ashlands."

She gestured to the area of Morrowind devastated by the Red Mountain's eruption more than two hundred years ago, and still covered with ash thicker than many snowdrifts of Skyrim. In the two centuries since the Red Year, the Dunmer of Morrowind had adapted valiantly to the desolation of their homeland, but they were only _just_ beginning to regain any sense of normalcy and prosperity. To ask them to abandon the territory they and their ancestors had shed blood, sweat, and tears to resettle… _No._

"I will not desert my allies to rapine and ruin," Llewellyn Dragonborn shook his head decisively. He looked up at the woman who had been his lover since she had tumbled into this plane of existence… _Shor and Ysgramor_ , _had it been almost fifteen years ago now?_

"Like it or not, we _need_ Tala Niwot and her _Vodahmin_ Covenant."

Sarai Gellarus looked down and absent-mindedly fiddled with an icon on the northern-most border of Skyrim.

"And the only thing that might possibly stand in the way of such an alliance is Isran and his 'Army of the Dawn.'"

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **The plot thickens.  
In the game of politics and thrones, there are very few "good guys" and very few "bad guys." In any video game or movie, Isran's "Army of the Dawn" would be the "good guys", marching to free slaves from their vampiric masters. **

**In real life, on the other hand, it's hardly so simple. And sometimes, as in dear Lewis' case, the "bad guys" are exactly what's needed.**

 **As always, please leave your thoughts/suggestions/constructive criticisms in the reviews below, even if it's a simple "Good job, I enjoyed it."**

 **Rock On, my friends!**

 **-Tusken1602**

* * *

Reviewer Responses:

siddharth1998m, NotRevan – Tala and the Dragonborn? Probably not. POTEMA and the Dragonborn? Absolutely.

Shadow Pegasus, HeWhoMustNotBeTamed, JimmyHall24, Dumnezeu, The Perpetual Shadow, Umbrardor – I'm trying to set up a historical parallel to Alexander the Great's kingdom fracturing after his death. How successfully I do that, really, is up to you.

GalacticHalfling – "When you play the game of thrones you win or you die. There is no middle ground."

derpysauce – Trying to slow some things down and answering some questions in this chapter. Hope you like it.

Bloodwolf432 – Probably a very wise choice, my friend. Very wise.

Cristobal Alvarez – I am also excited to see where this all goes! ;)

tylermech66 – I am always up for battle-nerding, my friend! :D And I hope that this chapter answered at least some of your questions regarding the feeding on slaves. It's less "slaughterhouse" and more "Blood Bank."

FourLivingCreatures – My plan is to mostly do Tala and her POV, with a few POV sections for Lewis and Sarah as well.

Spartanzerg75 – Hope this section answered your question about the Dunmer and their Daedric ties. I don't plan on crossing over into any series with this story. I've played _some_ DA, but not enough to really immerse myself into the lore on the scale required to do a proper fanfic on the subject.

Guest – Well, the choice for Lewis is either support them and open another front on another war, or condemn them and get a useful ally for the war that is looming on the horizon.

Wiwerse, badkidoh – Appreciate the review! I hope I don't disappoint!


	5. Chapter 5: Shacking Things Up

***MEEKO'S SHACK*  
** **HJAALMARCH  
SKYRIM**

Tala bristled at the sight of the seemingly innocent shack looming in the darkness.

 **"I still say this is a trap,"** Potema pouted.

"We've been around the hut three times," Tala reassured. "If Lewis or Sarah had any surprises, they're not within easy distance."

 **"We're far from our own borders, in the middle of Hjaalmarch,"** the Wolf Queen retorted. **"Not to mention that it's the Arch-Mage AND the Dragonborn we're meeting. Together, they might not _need_ anyone else."**

"It's time and past that we had this talk," Tala insisted stubbornly, forcing her feet to walk towards the small structure. "The conversation we have here will determine our next move, and indeed, the future of the Covenant's relationship with Skyrim."

 **"Unless they kill us here, and use our lack of a clear successor as a way to destabilize the _Vodahmin_." **

"They kill me, and every single Lord of the Vodahmin Covenant will come roaring over the Druadach Mountains, howling for vengeance," Tala scoffed. " _Pray_ they're that stupid."

 **"Won't do US any good, will it?"**

Tala squared her shoulders back, and then strode towards the entrance, leaning back as she delivered a _kick_ that swung the ancient back on rusted hinges The single candle on the table revealed two figures half-risen, one with a curved Akaviri blade drawn, the other with twin Shock spells in-hand.

There was a tense moment before the Travelers all recognized one another.

"Sorry I'm late," Tala said, sauntering in. "Too bad there's no Fast Travel in real life, eh?"

Wry, mirthless grins met her words.

"Was kicking the door open _really_ necessary?" Lewis sighed.

"Needed to make sure it was you two, and not a dozen of your Blades or Thieves' Guild members in here," Tala retorted, pulling back the third chair and plopping herself into it unceremoniously. Lewis and Sarah shared a look, and then sank back down in their own chairs. Sarah Gellar leaned forward towards Tala.

"Your Majesty…"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Buffy, it's the three of us," Tala cut her off. "There's no fucking point in 'majesty this, your grace that,' or 'Arch-Mage thou,' is there?"

Sarah leaned back, looking slightly embarrassed.

"I…I guess not," she stammered.

Tala nodded once and turned back to Lewis.

"SO, Lew, looks like Isran's off your leash," she shrugged, and Lewis winced.

"I had nothing to do with that," he answered simply. "Still don't."

"Sure as hell haven't done anything to _stop_ them," she scoffed.

"Believe it or not," Sarah cut in, "we have more important things to discuss."

"More important?" Tala scoffed. "More important than my queendom being invaded, and the distinct possibility of hundreds of _my subjects_ dying? Do tell, High-and-Mighty _Arch-Mage_ , what could _possibly be…_?"

"Titus Mede is dead."

Tala felt her mouth snap shut mid-sentence.

"How?"

Sarah shrugged.

"As far as we can tell… old age. But the important thing is who he appointed to succeed him."

"Who?"

Lewis reached into the small pouch and tossed the Imperial crown on the table.

Tala felt Potema snap a hand out to seize the golden circle, and only _just_ held her back. The entire focus of Potema's lives, previous and current, now lay on the middle of a rough-hewn oak table in the middle of a run-down shack. With the greatest effort of will, Tala _forced_ Potema back, beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead with the strain.

"So what is this, then?" she asked, turning back to Lewis. "Your idea of asking me to acknowledge you as Emperor? Because if it is, you can go fuck yourself."

"This is me letting you know that Imperial armies are marching north, _to fight me_ ," Lewis cut her off. "This is me, _ME_ Tala, not the High King, Dragonborn, or any chosen-one bullshit, _me_ , asking for your help to save my people from slaughter."

Tala gave a long look at Lewis, and then over at Sarah, who merely nodded in agreement. Then she slowly sank back down in the third chair in the room, a thousand thoughts racing through her brain, and Potema's.

"You'd better start from the beginning," she said at last.

* * *

 ***SOME TIME LATER***

Tala stared silently at the small map that Lewis had spread out on the table, with small pins indicating where different forces were or predicted to be. By now, the single candle had long since burnt out, and two different Magelight globes hung in the air above the table, making the interior bright as day.

"Well then," she said at last. "You two are in a pickle."

"That we are," Lewis nodded, and Tala felt herself blink at the blatant honesty. Sarah also gave Lewis a strange look. "Hence the reason the three of us are sitting here, hammering out the terms of an alliance."

"Oh, is that what we're doing?" Tala asked coyly.

Lewis looked across the table.

"Isn't it?" he asked, and his expression didn't betray a single note of trepidation or worry.

 _This one plays poker, or whatever the Skyrim equivalent is_.

 **Careful, little Tala…**

"That depends…" Tala answered finally, and Sarah narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

"On what?" she and Lewis said almost together.

"On a great many things."

Now Lewis' expression _did_ crack, and he rolled his eyes, leaning back with a sigh.

" _Fuck_ , Tala, I don't have time to play word games," he said, and there was something of the rough and impatient Nord in his voice again, "Tell me what you want!"

"For starters," Tala replied, "I want you to stand aside and let me remove a band of racist, backwards, country _fucks_ that are gathering in Solitude."

Lewis blinked, and his hand instinctively went to the small red pin indicating that point of the map.

"I thought…" he began, and then tried again, "I thought you were going to ask me to go and tell them to stand down."

"Would you?"

"Yes."

The answer had come instantly, and without hesitation. Tala leaned forward, and the two rulers stared closely at one another for a moment.

"I believe you," Tala said at last, "But no, if you call them off, then it's only a matter of time before they break with you and try again, and both of us will always have to be looking over our shoulders on the campaign to come."

"The campaign to come?" Lewis asked.

"Call it a _practice_ run for some new units and tactics I've been putting together," Tala went on, ignoring the question altogether.

"Yes," nodded Lewis slowly. "I have a few tricks of my own up my sleeve that I'm hoping will even the odds if Tiberius or Kelan-Tel march north."

Tala snorted. "I don't doubt you do… Dragonborn."

Then she turned to the third figure at the table.

"You've been awfully quiet, Sarah," she said, grinning. "Spit it out."

"I'm not a ruler like you two," Sarah shrugged. "I'm just the head of a college of magicians, who will of course support their king."

"You're not at Hogwarts, little Hufflepuff," Tala teased. "You're allowed to have opinions of your own."

Sarah shot her a withering glare that Tala entirely ignored. Then she folded her hands and pointed with her chin at the map between them all.

"Do you both intend to invade the south, or just defend our own territory?"

"I don't know," Tala answered, looking at Lewis. "Do you want the Ruby Throne, or just be King in the North?

Sarah smiled at the accent Tala had adopted, but Lewis only looked confused.

"Game of Thrones," Sarah explained.

"Never saw it," Lewis shrugged. "But to answer the question, I never _wanted_ the Ruby Throne. What I _want_ to do is sit at my hearth, raise a family, grow old and pass a legacy on to my children. But I'm not going to leave Galas and Baajirra to be overrun by the Dominion… _again_. I'm not going to leave Skyrim and Tamriel open to the chaos of petty little men. If that means I have to march south and crack heads together to win peace for my kingdom, and my allies, then so be it."

Tala lifted a hand, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together. Lewis furrowed his brows, while Sarah only rolled her eyes.

"What is that?" he asked, apparently missing the gesture's meaning.

"This is the world's smallest violin playing for you," Tala chuckled. "What a typical _male_ attitude, adopting the role of self-sacrificing victim. Don't whine and bitch about _having to rule_. Lewis, if you don't want the crown, give it to someone who _does._ "

"Like who?" Sarah demanded. "You? _What right do_ …"

"I have _just_ the same amount of claim on the Ruby Throne as either of _you two_ ," Tala retorted. "And just as much as the _first_ Titus Mede had after the Interregnum."

"That was a period of…"

"Civil war? Yes, Buffy, it certainly was, and it is once again," Tala nodded sarcastically. "The Dominion will soon realize they don't _need_ Tiberius, and if Tullius' account of this brat's character is correct, Kelan-Tel will realize that holding his hand will be more trouble than its worth. And then he'll be making for the Imperial City, or pulling his troops back to Black Marsh. Then it really _will be_ chaos and old night for Tamriel."

"So where does that leave us?" Lewis spread his hands, and Sarah stared intently at Tala, who regarded the two of them for another long moment.

"I'm not a big enough idiot to think I can make a bid for Empress on my own," she smiled, and then nodded decisively. "My troops will coordinate with yours, after they give the rest of Skyrim an object lesson."

"On?"

Tala grinned. "Why attacking anyone under the protection of the Covenant is a very bad idea."

She stood to her feet, turning towards the door. Sarah stood to her feet.

"And Tala?"

Tala paused at the door.

"Yes?"

"I'm a Gryffindor, not a Hufflepuff."

Even Tala couldn't hold back the snort of laughter that escaped me.

"Of course you are."

Then she was gone, and the door closed behind her. The other two looked at one another, sighing in something like relief.

"Do you believe her?" the Arch Mage of Winterhold asked.

"I'm… optimistic," the High King answered.

"Because I noticed that you didn't tell her about the guns."

Llewellyn Dragonborn smiled wearily, the effects of staying up until the early hours of the morning taking their toll.

"I'm optimistic, not stupid."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **A short intermission, if you will, before the main events begin rolling in. For the first time, all three Travelers have met in the same place _without_ the presence of anyone else, and thus were able to talk over things as Earth-born gamers inserted into an alternate universe. **

**So there's that.**

 **Please leave all thoughts/suggestions/reviews/comments/constructive criticisms in the reviews below, or PM me directly. I always love hearing from you, even if it's just "Good job."**

 **ROCK ON, my friends!**

 **-Tusken1602**

* * *

Reviewer Responses:

tylermech66 - Not a bad idea for the crown, if Llewellyn decides to truly make a bid for the title of Emperor.

Bloodwolf432, NotRevan - No guns for Tala, or at least not yet. I think Lewis wants to keep as many advantages as he can to himself at the moment.

griezz1 - No "Army of Darkness" quotes yet, but yes, I also find this story somewhat ironic as well.

Spartanzerg75, jdboss1 - Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar failed to secure their successions, and bloody civil war ensued, both times. But it is in these times of social upheaval that the greatest opportunities for change present themselves. As for Maomer... *spoilers ;)

GalacticHalfling, A Perpetual Shadow - If the Bad Guy is what's needed to defeat the Worst Guy... is he still the Bad Guy?

ronma hibiki - And there's no middle ground on these types of questions, either.

badkidoh, ajpa - Thanks! I really appreciate the support!


	6. Chapter 6: The Break of Dawn

***DAWNGUARD ARMY ENCAMPMENT*  
THE REACH  
SKYRIM**

The drums in the underbrush were the first indication any of the gathered Dawnguard had that the _Vodahmin_ were anywhere in the vicinity. The dull thuds reverberated in the near pitch-black darkness of the early morning, being felt deep in the chests of all present.

"Form ranks!" Isran roared, snatching up the warhammer. "Get moving, you slobs!"

Frantic hands secured armor around shoulders and great helms on their heads. Then they sprinted for the earth-and-wooden ramparts they had erected around the camp.

"Durak, you and Ingjard take command at the gate. Sorine, Celann," Isran rattled off. "Archers to the towers."

Wooden towers had been arranged every thirty yards, giving their archers a commanding view of the cleared land all around them. Likewise, mages sent forward multiple orbs of Magelight, illuminating the field around them in all directions. Isran clenched his fists, eyes scanning the distant tree line, shrouded in the darkness.

"Come on, you blood-sucking shit-stacks," he growled. "Come on!"

* * *

Tala looked down from her vantage point, surveying the impressive structure that had been constructed in a matter of days. The lights floating around it resembled nothing so much as fireflies surrounding a bristling hedgehog.

"Oh Isran," she chuckled, shaking her head, "always building forts wherever you go."

She turned back towards the group of figures standing just behind her.

"Order the first wave to begin."

The massive Minotaur grunted and pulled an axe free from his back.

"And Belhar?"

He paused, turning back inquisitively.

 **"I have no interest in prisoners today,"** Potema rasped. **"Pass the word: kill them all."**

The Minotaur and the group of bodyguards chuckled dangerously at the order.

"Borkul?"

"We have everything ready, my Queen," the Beast nodded. "Movarth, Vighar, and Lady Valerica are in position."

"Very good," Tala nodded. "Move your _phalanx_ forward to support. Remember: wait for them to come to _us_."

The orc's reply was lost in the crashing of underbrush, as well as a trumpeting call. Six mammoths crashed into the clearing, roaring their displeasure at the world. Rather than charging forward, however, they moved right, beginning a circular path around the fort. Then the wooden _ballistae_ on the top platforms rotated left, bringing their weapons to bay. Six projectiles flew through the air, the ceramic jars smashing against the wooden, and blue flames exploded out in all directions.

The Rieklings who manned the ballista cheered at the pyrotechnic sight, chittering in delight at one another. Illuminated as the fort was by their own mages' spells, it made for an easy target for their gun crews, while the mammoths, large as they were, were still shrouded by the dark of the early morning.

"Big boom-boom!" crowed Chief Hexahedra. "Winding-winder gin!"

Tiny hands turned the crank, the multiple gears working to reload the giant weapon. Two, three, four volleys fired, the massive creatures well out of range of anything in the fort. Suddenly the double-gate of the wooden fort opened, and dark figures began running forward.

Gunmar's trained trolls went forward, roaring their challenge. The mostly-dumb beasts were armored from head-to-toe, making the ordinarily-formidable creatures that much deadlier.

"Clever little bastards," Tala shook her head, and leaned back to give an order. "Send in Maddrad and his sons."

Three giants exited the woods at the same location as the mammoths. Rather than the stone clubs that their kind usually carried, these three bent back bows, aiming for the armored figures lurching forward. Six-foot-long arrows plied the air, and the giants were expert hunters. The arrows pinned the trolls in place, writhing like bugs on a corkboard.

* * *

"Isran!" Gunmar winced as a giant's arrow whizzed by the heads of those on the battlements. "We need to do something! Now!"

Isran gritted his teeth, and then nodded in answer.

"ON ME!" he called out, plucking up a broad circular shield. "SHIELD WALL!"

The Dawnguard formed ranks around their leader, each of their shields covering their neighbor from thigh to neck. With iron-plated brigandines and heavy helms, this gave their ranks a heavy momentum for the charge.

At Isran's command, massive wooden gates swung open, and several columns of the heavily-armored figures moved out towards the tree line. Volleys of arrows whined through the _just-breaking_ dawn light. Those behind the first rank threw their shields over the rank in front, mimicking the famous _testudo_ of the Imperial Legion. As if in answer, dark columns of troops moved to meet them, broad shields upraised. These were clad in the spiked, blood-red armor of the Bloodlet Throne Clan, the household troops of Vighar Under-lord.

"Here's something for your pikemen, Bitch-queen," Isran muttered. "Wholly together now… _Shoot_!"

The first rank of Dawnguard knelt, and the crossbowmen behind leveled their weapons. The short stubby weapons _twanged_ , sending barbed death forward; the Dawnguard's lever-action weapons couldn't match the rate of fire of the Dwemer Crossbows, but they could more than match their range. Bolts flew forward and sprouted from the weak points in both sides' armor, but the holes in the ranks were instantly filled with those behind, and both shield-walls remained steady as they neared one another, with mages behind each of the battle lines shielding from the Drain and Sun-Fire spells fired from both ranks.

"STENDARR!" came the war-cry of the Dawnguard as they charged forward to clash with the Bloodlet Clan warriors.

" _TA-LA, TA-LA!"_ came the answering cry, and full battle was joined.

* * *

"Right on cue," Tala laughed, as she watched. " _Sarissa!"_

Teyrn'garwch charged a spell, sending a firebolt high into the still-dim light of the growing dawn. In perfect order, the Bloodlet Throne clan warriors disengaged, wheeling to march towards the rear, leaving only a thin wall of shields between them and the Dawnguard's' crossbows.

But before they could press their advantage, more ranks of _Vodahmin_ came forward, these grasping _much_ longer poles, 16 feet in length. They pressed forward, and the spells designed to harm the undead impacted uselessly against the very-much-alive _Vodahmin_ ranks. As they advanced, a chant arose, building in pitch and volume with each step forward:

 _We are the point!_

 _We are the edge!_

 _We are the wolves that Potema fed!_

 _We are the bolt!_

 _We are the shaft!_

 _We are the darts the Daedra cast!_

Step by step, the Dawnguard ranks were forced back. Many of them dropped to their hands and knees, trying to crawl _under_ the infernal hedge of spear-points in front of them. But the fact was that with the longer spears, the first _five_ rows of the _Vodahmin_ could bring their long pikes to bear, presenting five separate rows of spearpoints impossible for any man to penetrate.

A horn sounded from the Dawnguard ranks, and their ranks parted _ever_ so slightly. War dogs, clad in crude-but-effective armor, rushed forward beneath the hedge of spears to bite and snap at exposed ankles. The front lines of _Vodahmin_ began to waver.

At the same crucial moment, a large party of cavalry rode out of the earthen fort. Tala hissed through her teeth as she saw them moving towards her army's right flank. She had hoped that they would not have identified her formation's weak points so quickly.

 **"It's a shame when the enemy, the dirty dog, doesn't do what you want them to,"** Potema intoned sarcastically. **"You might even say that's why we call them 'the enemy.'"**

" _Shut up_."

Tala made another motion, and two firebolts fired into the sky.

* * *

"What new devilry is this?" Raerek the Exile wondered aloud, watching the obvious _Vodahmin_ signal coming from the distant hill. "What are you up to, bitch-queen?"

As if in answer to his own question, a trumpeting sound echoed even above the drum of the cavalry's hoofbeats.

 _Mammoths_.

Raerek's head whipped around to see the half-dozen beasts bearing down upon them from the rear. After firing their initial shots, the beasts had veered off into the forest again, disappearing from sight and, apparently, from memory as well.

"Wheel left!" he called, pointing with his sword at the incoming threat, "Wheel…"

Raerek the Exile died without so much as a whimper as the massive _ballista_ -bolt sent both him and his mount toppling backward at the force of the impact. Scattered by the _ballista_ fire, the disorganized cavalry charge was torn to shreds by the pachyderms' impact, large spikes having been lashed to the mammoths' already-formidable curved tusks. Those who survived found themselves facing a line of armored giants, these armed with their signature stone clubs, which swung in deadly coordinated pendulums, like a line of harvesters swinging scythes in a wheat field.

"ARKAY!" Florentius Baenius called out, casting out a massive 'Vampire's Bane' spell that detonated uselessly against another enemy spell-ward. "Push forward, my brothers! Push…"

A _sarissa_ spearpoint caught him in the hip, the force of the long, thin weapon piercing the steel and leather brigantine. Baenius stumbled, and then another spearpoint caught him in the neck, choking off whatever his last words were intended to be.

"With me! With me!" Gunmar called out, one hand grasping the Burning Sun standard of the Dawnguard. His section of the ranks broke off, moving left to outflank the closely-packed _Vodahmin_ ranks. "FLANK THEM!"

From the tall grass, tall figures arose from where they had apparently been lying prone until now. These were stark-naked, devoid of any weapon… or any armor, for that matter, save for the mottled cloaks that had helped conceal them.

 _What in Stendarr's name?_ Gunmar wondered, and then horrible realization struck him.

"Close ranks!" he called out to the men running in loose formation towards the scattered figures. These paused as they beheld each of the figures throw their heads back, shedding both the war-cloaks and their human forms. Were-wolves and were-bears came on at a gallop and there was a horrible sound of sharpened claws and fangs rattling against steel…

Taken from the left flank by the Hunting Pack, the press of the _sarissas_ from the front, and the mammoths and giants in the rear, the Dawnguard ranks began to waver, and then to break. As the heavily-armed figures broke ranks, the more lightly-armored figures of the Bloodlet vampires pushed forward to pursue.

"Send in the rest," Tala stated, her voice growing slightly grim. "Finish them off."

From the far left of the battlefield, horsemen and centaurs pushed forward, cutting off the fleeing figures from going back into the earthen fort, forcing them to turn right. It was a long run over open ground… and from that, there could only be one outcome.

Sorine Jurard reloaded her crossbow, smiling thinly as she saw a _Vodahmin_ stumble and fall. She stood over the bodies of Mogrul and Durak, both orcs having given their lives guarding her from blades and Dwemer Crossbow bolts. The battle was lost; even the most inexperienced of the new recruits could see that. The whole thing had gone wrong: they never should have left the fortifications.

 _But then they could have bombarded the place with siege works until half us were dead,_ her brain countered.

Now, the heavy armor that was supposed to help them overrun the more lightly-armored vampire units now were just weighing them down, making them easier targets for their faster pursuers. She hadn't seen Isran since the _Vodahmin_ 's last charge, but she had seen Celann go down, a half-dozen bolts in him. Beside her, Agmaer whirled dual axes, clearing a way forward.

 _We can still make it_ , her mind raced. _Dragon Bridge is only five miles away. If we can cross the bridge…_

A massive figure tore out of the underbrush in front of them, broad-shouldered, and sprouting horns from each side of its forehead.

 _Minotaur._

Agmaer roared a challenge of his own and pushed forward to the attack. But the Minotaur almost seemed to ignore him in favor of watching Sorine work the lever action on her crossbow. She was scrabbling for another bolt when _something_ struck her full-on in the chest. She went down, and everything felt… _cold_. The throwing axe in her chest had managed to bite deeply through her armor.

 _Ribs…sternum… probably my lung, too_ , some part of her brain informed her, calmly and matter-of-factly. Everything felt heavy… but there wasn't any pain.

 _That's the shock kicking in_.

Then the giant Minotaur was suddenly above her, wincing as he pulled an axe from his own shoulder.

 _That's Agmaer's ax…_

The massive creature slowly knelt beside her, placing a massive hand beneath her head, and putting another one at the small of his back. The gesture was almost tender, and the head cocked sideways, looking down at her. Sorine looked down at the axe that had almost cut her in half, and then nodded back up at the figure above her.

The mercy-stroke ended her life quickly and painlessly.

* * *

Tala turned from the figure of Raerek the Exile, pinned to the body of his horse. With the sun just now coming over the distant mountains, the light showed that the frozen expression on his face was one of utter surprise and incredulity.

"Cut him free," she ordered. "Take the body our side of the Dragon Bridge and hang it high for everyone to see."

She continued across the battlefield, looking for other faces and figures.

"Anyone find Isran?" she asked.

"Not yet, my queen," Skoberth Black-Song answered.

 **"Then do it now,"** Potema snarled. **"His is the body that the Nords** ** _most need_** **to see."**

"QUEEN TALA!" came a call from Movarth Piquine. "OVER HERE!"

The party around the queen took off at a run, coming to where the Warden of the South stood. Beside him, another body of a fallen horse lay still. But what was of significance was who lay _beneath_ the horse.

"Faleen Dark-sword," Tala said in greeting to the Redguard woman. "So… it comes to this at last."

"You… may have…triumphed today…" came the wheezing rasps of the dying woman who was once housecarl to Jarl Igmund of Markarth. "But… one day… you will fall."

"That may be," Tala nodded in sober acknowledgment. "The gods are inherently indifferent to the affairs of their creation, and the blessing of the Daedra is certainly a fickle thing. It may be true, indeed."

Tala Niwot drew the Dragon Priest Dagger that Lydia of Whiterun had given her… so long ago now, when she had first come into this realm.

"But not today."

She paused, only for a moment.

"I will bury you beside your _jarl_ and lord, whom you have served so well."

The dark hatred in each of the women's eyes faded somewhat, and a moment of mutual respect passed between them. And then the dagger flashed, and the last vestige of the House of Markarth perished on the field of battle.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **So… Isran's plans for the reborn Dawnguard die with him… or do they? But certainly, the hope of a restoration of a Nordic Jarl of Markarth is well and truly crushed under the heel of a truly coalition army. Now Tala is free to move south towards Hammerfell and the border the** ** _Vodahmin_** **Covenant share with Cyrodiil.**

 **This chapter was a bit of fun experimenting with different tactics and units facing off against one another, and kinda became Crusaders vs. Ancient Macedonians. Full credit to** **tylermech66** **for giving me the idea of mammoth-mounted Rieklings.**

 **As always, please leave all thoughts/suggestions/reviews/comments/constructive criticisms in the reviews below, or PM me directly. I always love hearing from you, even if it's just "Good job," or "I liked it." You are all awesome.**

 **ROCK ON, my friends!**

 **-Tusken1602**

* * *

Reviewer Responses:

derpysauce – No UNINFORMED people present then. ;P As for afterlives, yes, Tala is absolutely planning on living forever, given her choice of mind-companion and royal consort. As for the other two, I'm pretty sure they're betting on a happy eternity in Sovngarde (*cough Lawful Good *cough)

Galactic Halfling - Tala as Empress? Maybe. Potema Septim as Empress? No thanks.

FourLivingCreatures - I'll see what I can do. :P

siddharth1998m, JimmyHall24, tylermech66, NotRevan, Cristobal Alvarez - Keeping the guns secret only works until you use them. And after that... can you spell ARMS RACE? And gunpowder does not automatically equal victory.

Tech Warrior Ender, BarricadesDemon216 - I also enjoyed see all 3 Travelers just... being themselves. And I think you're spot on in your assessment of Lewis in that he does not _want_ power... but it keeps on getting handed to him all the same.

Bloodwolf432 - A girl's gotta do what girl's gotta do...

Spartanzerg75 - Yes... we will, won't we? As for snow elf survivors... as far as I know, Gelebor is the only one left alive. And he's committed to guarding the Wayshrine.

Guest - Tiberius vs. Tala will be something that does down in the future. And the Tyranny of the Sun is a temporary spell, even with a Blood-cursed Arrow.

AlexFalToh - With someone like Tala... is peace really an option?

Mirrius Rusticulus, jdboss1, Wiwerse, badkidoh - Thanks so much! Appreciate your support!


	7. Chapter 7: Imperial Report

**From: Caius Acheron, _Penitus Oculatus_ Legate  
To: Commander Gaius Moro, Imperial City:**

Commander,

In accordance with your instructions, we have made several inroads into High Rock and Hammerfell and have labored to establish a network of informants and agents in place.

In this report, I hope to condense the events of the five years since Queen Tala's return from the Summerset Isles and the conclusion of the Second Great War.

* * *

Unification of Hammerfell

With the conclusion of the Second Great War, the common enemy that had united the Crown and Forbear factions of Hammerfell was effectively eliminated. Predictably, the age-old divisions and rivalries began to rear their heads, and the dream of a kingdom of united Redguards began to fade.

These rivalries culminated in the Red Night at Gilane. In a last-ditch attempt to mend the rift between the two factions, the leaders of both assembled at Gilane, seeking to form some kind of coherent government of Hammerfell. However, Lord Shamadal Murnane of Hagathe, a leader of the Crowns faction, arranged to have armed guards disguised outside the meeting hall. In a display of ruthlessness, they attacked, and in the ensuing violence, many of the Forbear leaders were killed. In the aftermath of the attack, Shamadal declared himself King of Hammerfell. With many of the Forbear leaders slain, the northern cities of Sentinel, Skaven, and Dragonstar were paralyzed into inaction.

Shamadal's proclamation, however, did not go unopposed. General Kematu had been commander of the unified Redguard forces under the Vodahmin Covenant during the Second Great War. His naval victories against the Aldmeri fleet at Firsthold and Skywatch had done much to win him acclaim and popularity, so much so that he was named Hammerfell's ambassador to Queen Tala's court, as well as the Redguard spokesperson in the Witch-Queen's Inner Circle. Born in Taneth, he was in fact a member of the Crown faction. However, when he had heard of "King" Shamadal's actions, he returned to Hammerfell from Markarth, and rallied the Forbear forces of the north, vowing to win justice for the murdered Forbear leaders.

Reinforced by forces from High Rock and the Reach, Kematu's army marched along the coast, until they came to the city of Sentinel, under siege by the forces of the self-proclaimed King of Hammerfell. In the battle that followed, Kematu led the charge directly against the standard of the "King," and with a single arrow, slew the great war-elephant from which Shamadal commanded his army. The great beast collapsed, crushing both the king and his hopes for the crown of Hammerfell. With their leader slain, the Crown army fell into disarray, and were easily routed by the Covenant Army. In quick succession, the traditionally-Crown cities sent ambassadors to declare their obeisance, pledging once more to honor the _Vodahmin_ Covenant.

Plucking the golden crown from the head of the fallen king, Tala Niwot declared General Kematu _Warden_ _King of Hammerfell._ And great was the acclaim that met her proclamation. The Forbear cities consented to his rule on account of his avenging the deaths of their lords and rulers. The Crowns took his Taneth birthplace and Crown member status into account before acknowledging their acceptance also.

But perhaps more compelling than any other argument was the _Vodahmin_ steel at his back, and the corpse of his rival at his feet.

Thrafey Rebellion

Once upon a time, there were no fewer than nine vampire clans in Daggerfall alone. One by one, however, they were united under the leadership of the Thrafey clan, and then hunted to near-extinction over the centuries, save for small enclaves. Upon the proclamation of religious freedom by Queen Tala at the establishment of the _Vodahmin_ Covenant, many clans came out of hiding, lending their aid during the _Vodahmin_ conquest of High Rock and the Second Great War.

Upon the confirmation of the firm ascendancy of the Volkihar clan, many of the Thrafey grew unwilling to serve under their northern rivals or the local Breton and Orsimer lords. When the banners of the Covenant were called to march south to aid in the Redguard Civil War, these saw an opportunity to seize more power for themselves.

The city of Wayrest had come under the loose rulership of the Corsairs, a loose confederation of pirates and freebooters. Under the leadership of "Admiral" Hasdach Chard, these pirates had entered into an alliance with Potema Septim, and later Tala Niwot, many of them bearing her vampiric army on the long voyage around the Altmer Sea-Wall to the capital city of Alinor. Riding upon the successes of these and later naval victories against the Dominion (and the gold and plunder it had brought into the Corsairs' holds), Chard had secured a tentative leadership role, along with nominal rulership of the city of Wayrest.

The Thrafey took advantage of the situation by attacking a number of the ships while they were still out at the open sea, disguising the few ships they possessed as helpless merchantmen. Enthralling the crew of the pirates who had attacked them, the newly-assembled Thrafey fleet sailed directly into the harbor of Wayrest under the banner of the Corsairs. Taken completely by surprise, Hasdach Chard and his supporters could offer little resistance when the Breton vampires attacked. Of the mighty Corsair fleet, a single vessel escaped, bearing the disgraced and defeated "Admiral," bearing the news of this disaster to the _Vodahmin_ Army still encamped at Sentinel.

With her fleet now lost, and with the Redguard fleet scattered and recalled to their various home ports, Tala Niwot now faced the ugly necessity of a long forced-march around the coastline, with the Thrafey fleet free to harass the entire coastline of both High Rock and Hammerfell. And even assuming that the Covenant army could survive the long march to Wayrest, there was no reason to believe the Thrafey would even stand and defend the city. Instead, it was much more likely that they would evacuate to their ships, taking the city's populace as blood-slaves, giving them the ability to stay at sea almost indefinitely.

Faced with a such a unappealing choice, Queen Tala apparently made a decision. Withdrawing into her private tent, she drew the circle and performed "The Black Sacrament," summoning the servants of Sithis, Night Mother of Chaos.

And Sithis answered.

By all accounts that I and my contacts have been able to assemble, a group identifying itself as the Dark Brotherhood descended upon Wayrest _en masse_. It is unknown to us at this time if these are survivors from the group massacred in Skyrim, or a new group entirely, capitalizing on the infamous name. Given the short time frame, we are prone to lean towards the latter. However dubiously they acquired the name, their results were certifiable: In a single night, the leaders of the Thrafey found themselves on the wrong side of drawn daggers. The loss of their principle leaders threw the Thrafey into complete disarray. Their elders and the principles makers eliminated, the clan devolved into infighting, disorganized raiding, and debauchery. By the time a force dispatched from Orsinium arrived at the gates of the city, the Thrafey had essentially wiped themselves out. The pitiful remnant was hunted down and exterminated by their northern rivals.

Hasdach Chard was re-appointed Lord Admiral of Wayrest, and quickly reorganized the Corsairs into a more formal organization, known as the Brotherhood of the Coast. Rather than a carefree, loosely-associated group of marauding pirates, the Brotherhood of the Coast appears to be a highly-trained mercenary fleet, with distinct ranks and a clear command structure, firmly in the hire of the _Vodahmin_ Covenant.

*Personal Note: It is known that Chard was grievously wounded during his escape from Wayrest. His remarkable recovery, and the fact that he often goes about hooded, or in wide-brimmed hats to shield himself from the sun, seems to give credence to the theory that Lady Serana turned the Corsair Admiral in order to save his life. This theory has yet to be verified, however.

* * *

Tactics and Units

Potema Septim's tactics could be defined as classically Imperial, with the added factor of vampirism and necromancy to gain expendable troops to weaken the enemy lines until her heavy troops could get into position to strike. These tactics seemed to have contributed to the Wolf-Queen's short-lived revival and establishment of the _Vodahmin_. In the long run, however, this tactic is only sustainable if the undead ranks can be replenished easily. Defeat and the loss of access to the battlefield of slain will ultimately rob this type of tactic of any kind of efficacy, as can be seen in the fall of the Wolf-Queen and the Siege of Solitude. The Wolf Queen's eventual defeat came because she could not devise new tactics to fit the changed situation in which she found herself.

Tala Niwot, in my humble opinion, is a much more dangerous enemy, if only because of the fact that she has proven highly adaptable in her strategies and her capabilities:

Unit Types

Cavalry: Given High Rock's mountainous terrain, Bretons have typically disdained the use of cavalry. However, the Covenant has often utilized light, mobile cavalry units. They have been on a number of variable mounts: Horses, vale-deer, and even sable cat-riders have been seen in the ranks of her army. Perhaps even more worrisome has been the migration of several of the centaur clans of Valenwood, drawn by the promise of the freedom to practice their archaic ancestor worship. These have also obviously been a great boon, making up the small core of heavy units in to the Covenant cavalry.

The large number of werewolves and other Beast-men that form what is known as the Hunting Pack are most often utilized as a highly-mobile form of shock-cavalry, as their beast-forms can keep pace with even a galloping warhorse for short distances. Likewise, Minotaurs have been seen charging alongside heavier cavalry units. While these cannot keep up such a pace for long, they are invaluable for breaking up any kind of enemy formation that might otherwise be effective against traditional cavalry units.

Queen Tala and her commanders most often use cavalry to harass the enemy ranks, forcing them to re-position or advance. Once they do commit their own mounted forces, however, the lighter Covenant cavalry quickly outpace their pursers, often goading them into charging directly the _Vodahmin_ infantry.

Infantry:

From our discussions with veterans of Queen Tala's wars and soldiers in her ranks, the _Vodahmin_ utilize several distinct infantry types:

Draugr: While not used in quite the same numbers as the Wolf-Queen in the War of the Red Diamond, reanimated corpses still have their place in the _Vodahmin_ army. However, rather than rushed in large numbers against the entire front line of the enemy, combing or creating weak spots (as Potema Septim was wont to do), Queen Tala uses them to strike at a single point of their defenses in overwhelming numbers. The results of this first assault, however, are not so much important, as this attack is often a feint, luring the enemy's attention and reserve units away from her intended target. Then she strikes with her main force, hurling them against the now-overstretched enemy.

Skirmishers: The Breton mountain tribes, of whom the Foresworn were only a small part, have cemented their place as champion hit-and-run fighters, ambushing in numbers and retreating when challenged. Rather than attempt to _retrain_ these, or combat centuries of inbred tactics and mindsets, the Witch-Queen has folded them into her army, using them as an effective skirmishing force. If the enemy attempts to entrench themselves, or advance in close order, these lighter units are deployed against them. Using slings, javelins, and arrows, they harass the enemy ranks, forcing them to react or deploy some kind of screening force against them.

Once this is done, the enemy often finds themselves outmatched by the sheer number of arrows the new Dwemer Crossbow can send downrange. While perhaps not having the range of a longbow (or perhaps the heavy crossbows employed by the Dawnguard), the Dwemer Crossbow's rate of fire must be taken into account by any serious strategist.

Heavy Infantry: The Volkihar clans traditionally use light armor but are disciplined enough to fight in ordered ranks. However, in the new _Vodahmin_ army, these are now protected by heavy armor, designed to shield its wearer from the effects of even open sunlight. This, coupled with broad shields and long spears or pikes, forms the core of the _Vodahmin_ army. It is around this force that Queen Tala and her generals build and plan their armies. The Stormcloak exiles have proven invaluable in this endeavor, as have the reunited Orcish tribes of Orsinium. Their ability to march, deploy, and fight in close ranks is such on a level to rival Imperial legions.

With the sole exception of the distinctly all-vampire regiments, a serious effort has been made to integrate the units, with Argonians fighting alongside former Stormcloaks, alongside Orcish warriors and Redguard recruits. They are not allowed to organize themselves by race or city of origin. Remarkably, this has done much to dispel any racial or geographical tensions that might otherwise exist in such a force. The soldiers are drilled and trained to identify themselves as 'Covenant" soldiers first, and their own races or home cities second. The result, it cannot be argued, is a solid line of battle that can be deployed either to hold an enemy in place while other units flank, or to press home the final onslaught that breaks open a hole in the enemy ranks.

In short, Queen Tala is a much more dangerous foe than the ghost that once possessed her. Potema Septim was predictable, her tactics enshrined in the history books, and her behavior of inevitably betraying erstwhile allies observed even in her second coming. And such tactics, both in the near and distance past, proved to be her undoing.

Queen Tala, on the other hand, is a capable, proven war-leader who has proven shrewd yet formidable, fearless yet prudent, and cautious yet decisive.

Now that our network has been established, I hope to resume our regular reporting schedule. In the d

* * *

 ** _Sorry, Commander Moro._**

 ** _Found this unfinished report clutched in your little spy's hand. He seemed very determined that you should receive it, and having read it, I can't imagine any reason why you shouldn't have it. It says some of the nicest things about me, after all._**  
 ** _Oh, and that network he spoke of?_**  
 ** _Their deaths were quicker and more painless than any spies should hope for._**

 ** _With nothing but the slightest of regards,_**

 ** _Tala Niwot_**

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **I am working on outlining and story-crafting the next section of this story and trying my best not to let "perfect" be the enemy of "good."  
But I wanted to share this short little section with you. I am pretty sure that I will be breaking up the story with these short little tidbits from time to time, as I did in ****Wolf Queen Awakened** **.**

 **As always, please leave your thoughts/suggestions/constructive criticisms in the reviews below, even if it's a simple "Good job, I enjoyed it."**

 **Rock On, my friends!**

 **-Tusken1602**

* * *

Reviewer Responses:

Bloodwolf432 – As I understand it, there was an intention of allowing the player to become a were-bear in the Dragonborn DLC, but the idea was scrapped in the interests of time and being able to release the content on schedule. Could be wrong about that, but I agree that it's a shame you can't be a were-bear.

Zeru'Xil – Slings would be devastating weapons, but another consideration is that an arrow has piercing power, with all the weight delivered into a one (literal) point, while a sling's crushing power is spread over a wide area. Depending on the size of the stone that is being lobbed, it may or might not do as much damage. Great idea for giants, though.

siddharth1998m – They are not in Tala's _pocket_ , no, but they do owe her several favors. Their main agenda is building their fame and reputation back up to pre-massacre levels, and Tala is the most promising way to do so, I think.

shadow wolf 501 – Just a magical queen talking to a Minotaur…. What Narnia reference? ;P

METALHELLSPWN – I love the Total War games. Not much a fan of Attila, though, but definitely all the rest.

jdboss1 – Good luck with that. Lol

GalacticHalfling – Isran was ready to fight a vampire army. It didn't even seriously occur to him that other folk might take up arms to protect their vampire comrades.

Guest – While it's true that Lewis IS a Nightingale, if I had to bet on who would win the Dragonborn's soul between Shor the Creator (Lorkhan Himself) and a mere Daedric prince, I'd bet on Shor. But that's just me.

Dirk Digglit – LOVE S.M. Stirling's Emberverse, and Tala might have read a few of them on a cold Wisconsin night… lol

Guest – Very true about Ariel's Bow, thanks!

griezz1 – "That STILL only counts as one!" ;)

Spartanzerg75 – That may be true in a mod, but I've never found them in the vanilla game. *shrugs

jesse – Harvesting a field of corpses…. :D

TheHatter1 – I think Tala's enemies might be in store for a few more nightmarish things than the report above. *evil laugh* And in answer to your question about Frey… yes.

Rabastan – The _only_ one who knows that Potema Septim is _not_ banished back to Oblivion is Tala.

Blaise Welshman – I just know that I quickly lose interest around Chapter 80 of any fanfic I'm reading, and I just wanted to spare my readers the same pain. I'd much rather have 3 separate 40-chapter stories than have to wade through 100-plus chapters. Personal preference? Definitely.

omegansapphire42, badkidoh, tylermech66, Guest– Thanks so much! Appreciate it! Hope you'll keep reading/reviewing, it means a lot to me.


	8. Chapter 8: New Recruits

***VODAHMIN ARMY ENCAMPMENT*  
OUTSIDE ELINHIR  
HAMMERFELL  
VODAHMIN COVENANT**

Ivanos Halston adjusted the straps of his pack almost absent-mindedly. The pack weighted just shy of sixty pounds, which would have crippled him, if he had been back home in Daggerfall. But that had been _before_ his signing up and being shipped off to Camp Orsimer. Before, he had been a thin, almost-gangly farmboy with dreams of heroism and glory. Now, he was a trained warrior, drilled and trained to be a part of an army to rival and surpass even the legendary Legions of Cyrodiil. And he _personally_ had been selected as part of a detail to be shipped out immediately as replacements for an existing unit, rather than being held back for more training.

"Or at least, that's what they _told you_ ," some part of his brain informed him as he walked through the tent door and gave the duty officer his orders.

The Redguard who met him at the gate had given him a calculating look and a knowing smile, and then motioned for him to follow.

"How was Camp Orsimer?" he asked conversationally.

"Fine," Ivanos shrugged.

The truth? The ten weeks he had spent there had been the absolute hardest of his life. The endless marching, drill, and training had caused him to rethink his own commitment a hundred times over, but he had stuck it out, and had emerged from it a completely different person. Based upon the half-wink the officer had given him, the officer knew exactly what he _hadn't_ said.

"Your unit is the 84th _Hoplon_ ," the officer continued. "Your _decurion_ is a good soldier. Ex-Legion, knows his stuff."

Ivanos nodded. A _hoplon_ was the smallest unit of a Vodahmin regiment, made up of nine soldiers and a _decurion_. Ten of them made a _Phalanx,_ and ten _phalanxes_ made up a regiment.

 _Not sure who came up with names for each of these units,_ Ivanos thought absently.

"Morgen!" the officer called out. A tall orc straightened and turned towards the sound, making his salute once Ivanos and his escort drew closer. It was only then that Ivanos could see that one of the orc's eyes was completely covered with scar tissue, while the other burned with a fierce intensity.

"Commander?"

"I found you a replacement," the officer said, jerking a thumb towards Ivanos. "Fresh out of Camp Orsimer."

Morgen cast his one good eye towards him, and Ivanos felt himself stiffen under the orc's critical gaze.

"You've brought _one_ ," the captain said slowly, "I had applied for _four_."

"And I applied for the Jagged Crown of Skyrim, and a pony of my very own, so I guess we're both disappointed, aren't we?"

Morgen snorted, and then returned his attention towards the young Breton.

"You have your gear, boy?"

"Yes sir," Ivanos answered quickly, patting the pack with his free hand. "Everything except a _sarissa_ , sir."

"Sadly, we have plenty of those available at the moment," Morgen grunted. "Follow me."

Ivanos made the salute to his escorting officer, and then followed the tall orc.

"It's been two weeks since I lost four good soldiers in our last battle," the orc grunted. "And in their place, they send me _you_."

"Sir, I…" Ivanos began, and stopped under the decurion's withering glare.

"I will say this once," the orc continued, as if he hadn't been interrupted. "The fact that you have made it through the training camp means you have accomplished the _bare minimum_ to not be a fucking _disgrace_ to your own comrades. It DOES NOT make you a soldier. I will do that. Or as Malacath is my witness, I will make you a fucking corpse."

Ivanos gulped involuntarily.

"AHMED!"

A turbaned Redguard appeared at the orc's shout.

"Yes, sir?"

"Show our latest recruit to his tent," Morgen ordered

"Yes sir!" the Redguard saluted briskly as the orc stormed off, and then turned towards Ivanos.

"Ahmed D'ethta," he said, extending a hand.

"Iv…Ivanos Halston," came the shaky reply.

"Did he give you the 'I'll make you a soldier or a corpse' speech too?"

Ivanos' stare must have betrayed the answer, because Ahmed laughed and slapped him on the back.

"Don't worry, lad," he reassured. "Morgen is just like that at first. He's actually alright, once you get to know him…. so I'm told."

Before Ivanos could ask any more questions, he was caught up and half led, half dragged to a string of tents.

"This here is Ericc Red-sword," Ahmed stated, gesturing to a older Nord splitting wood for the central cookfire. "He's one of those Stormcloaks who _didn't_ accept their High King's invitation to go home, once Skyrim made Talos worship legal again."

"The Dragonborn is no High King of _mine_ ," the Nord hissed, spitting for extra emphasis. " _My_ king died at his hand at the Siege of Windhelm. I'll be dead before I bend the knee to that fucking traitor."

"Or you'll be in the ranks, risking your life alongside ours," Ahmed retorted. "Speaking of risk, Ivanos, do you play dice?"

"Don't trust his fucking dice," came a hissing voice, and Ivanos did his very best not to start or stare as the biggest Argonian he had ever _seen_ came out of one of the tents. "He'll fleece you of every septim you have, then take the shirt off your back."

"And Ssirutak here is of course from Black Marsh," Ahmed went on, giving the lizard a mirthless smile. "She was apparently exiled for being a suspicious _bitch_ , not to mention a _horrible loser!"_

"Or maybe I was exiled because I didn't believe every word I was _told,"_ the Argonian retorted, giving what Ivanos didn't doubt was the Argonian equivalent of a very specific gesture, to which Ahmed only smiled and blew a delicate kiss in reply.

"And the last two members of our happy little family happen to be your countrymen," Ahmed continued, pointing a man and woman sparring not far off. "Those are Jireh and Jaren Lathan. I believe they're from Shornhelm. And yes, they're twins, and no, they don't, and shame on you for thinking such incestuous fantasies."

Ivanos gave a confused glace as Ericc and Ssirutak shared in the Redguard's off-color humor, but then he smiled for reasons all his own. When he had been a child, he never would have considered _Shornhelm_ residents his "countrymen." For that matter, Daggerfell and Shornhelm had been at an uneasy peace or an ineffectual war (depending on who you asked) for nearly the past century. Not even the threat of the Dominion invasion of Hammerfell had been enough to unite the squabbling Breton city-states. It had taken Tala Niwot and the _Vodahmin_ Covenant to restore peace to the region and forge it into the power that High Rock was today. A power where Nords, Argonians, Orcs and Redguards could stand side by side.

"Ivanos?"

The question brought him out of his thoughts and back to the present.

"Sorry?" he stammered.

"Have you eaten yet this morning?" Ssiirutak repeated and clicked a forked tongue when Ivanos shook his head. "There should be more porridge on the fire. Bring your bowl or cup, if you have one, or one of us can loan you one."

Ivanos fumbled his shallow serving bowl out of his cramped pack before depositing the pack in one of the vacant tents pointed out to him and coming back to the fire. He nodded his thanks as the Argonian ladled him a serving of what looked like a rice porridge. It wasn't fancy, but it certainly was an improvement on the hardtack biscuits and jerky he had been eating during the long march south from Orsinium.

"So," he said slowly, in-between bites, "The decurion said you all were in the battle that took place two weeks ago? Up at Dragon Bridge?"

The three soldiers around him shared a look, and then Ahmed nodded.

"We were there."

"Was it…" Ivanos paused. "Was it as bad as everyone said it was? We heard at the Camp that it was a slaughter, a massacre more than a battle."

"Wasn't as one-sided as all that," Ericc shook his head. "They fought well and were well-prepared for the fight."

"Only problem was, they were prepared for the wrong one," Ahmed half-chuckled. "Queen Tala had an answer for each of their tactics, and they only had ones for our vampiric friends."

"It has a hard-fought day, and no mistake," Ssirutak murmured. "Troubling that we should get only one replacement in two weeks' time."

"Just means we're not likely to be picked for frontline work," Ahmed shrugged. "That means scouting missions, or foraging patrols. That's fine by me."

"So tell us, Ivanos," Ericc asked, giving the boy a shrewd glace, "What gods do you follow?"

The Redguard leaned over and punched the Nord on the shoulder hard enough to make the man stumble backwards.

" _Fucking_ Mora, Erik, you want to do this now?"

"It's a fair question!" the man objected as Ahmed turned back to Ivanos.

"Red-sword here is unique amongst his Stormcloak brethren in that he has a theory that we need a _more_ diverse army."

"I'm just saying, the more gods we have our side, the better. Ssiru prays to the Hist…"

" _Communes with_ …" the Argonian corrected.

"The twins pray to… whatever weird religion they have. And you worship the Redguard pantheon."

"Actually," Ahmed corrected, "I'm a follower of Anu and Padomay…"

"Right, nobody cares," Ericc waved dismissively. "Well, Ivanos? Which gods do you call on?"

Ivanos swallowed the mouthful of porridge, thinking carefully before answering.

"I… wasn't raised to be particularly religious," he stated slowly. "My father said that the Aedra are forgetful, the Daedra are fickle, and the ancestors are dead."

Chuckles went around the circle.

"Your father sounds like a wise man," Ahmed nodded.

"Yes," Ivanos nodded. "He _was_."

There was an awkward silence for a moment before the Breton twins came stumbling back to the tents, breathless and panting, and the introductions were made in-person.

"Just from Camp Orsimer, then?" Jireh asked, and got a confirming nod. "Is Borgakh Steel-Heart still the sword instructor there?"

"Sure is," Ivanos grinned, pantomiming a sore arm as he did so. "Beat some sense into all of us ignorant farm boys, she did."

"Right then," Jaren said, standing to his feet. "Let's see how much you learned, boyo."

"Right now?"

"No time like the present to see if you're going to be a burden or blessing," the man stated.

"You've been sparring for the past hour," Ericc Red-Sword said, raising a hand to stop the other man. "I'll take the milk drinker's measure."

" _Men_ ," Jireh scoffed rolling her eyes.

"Which weapons?" Ivanos asked, pausing by his pack.

"Sword and shield," the big Nord grinned in a predatory fashion. "We've got practice blades here."

Ivanos grabbed the new kite-shaped shield that was now standard issue to the _Vodahmin_ army, and accepted a blunted practice sword from one of the others. The pair of fighters squared off, with the others watching, and other passer-byers pausing to watch, the match a welcome relief from the doldrums of camp life.

Both men threw their shields before them, the kite shape covering them from shin to chin, with only a pair of eyes above the rim of the shield. The blades were up and resting on the top of the shield as well, and they circled warily. Ivanos took careful stock of the situation: the Nord was almost a head taller than himself, with a longer reach and capable of hitting _much_ harder.

Ericc moved forward.

"SOVENGARDE!" came his Stormcloak battle-cry and his blade swept in a wide arc. It would have been a simple matter to hide behind his shield, but Ivanos knew that the other man's superior size and strength would soon beat him into submission. Instead, he swept his own blade to intercept, sweeping the other blade aside and stepping to his right.

"TA-LA, TA-LA!"

His own war-cry rose as he hooked the bottom of the kite shield under the other man's, using a flick of his arm to pull the shield out of the way, striking under the shield at the unprotected body. To his credit, Ericc didn't try to wrestle control of his own shield back from him. If he had, he would have gotten a practice blade to his ribs for his trouble. Instead, he used the momentum Ivanos' trick had given him to spin to his own right, Ivanos' practice blade _just_ missing the leather of his belt. Ericc's weapon now descended on Ivanos like a thunderbolt from heaven, and the boy had no time to dodge. The blow on his shield sent numb shock up his arm, and Ivanos had to back-pedal desperately to avoid the next two blows.

But this now put him at a desperate disadvantage, and Ericc Red-Sword moved forward, matching his retreat step for step. The two men now were shoving their shields together, Ivanos now fully realizing how ill-matched they were, pound for pound. His sword moved almost automatically, the muscle-memory ingrained into his subconscious with _hours_ of grueling practice at the training camp. The parries and counters were textbook, but that also made them predictable to the war-scarred veteran. But in the midst of the trading blows, a critical factor occurred to the younger Breton.

 _He's not using the shield to its full advantage,_ he thought. _He's used to the round shape of the Nords' fashion. If that's true, then I can…_

Suddenly, and without warning, Ivanos released his shield, and went to one knee as the Nord's weapon sent the metal kite spinning away. Before Ericc could recover from his surprise, Ivanos seized the point of the other man's shield and _lifted_ , striking the back of the Nord's knee with his weapon. He heard a _hiss_ of surprise and pain escape Ericc as the struck leg betrayed him, dropping him to one knee himself. Moving quickly, Ivanos moved around the bigger man, throwing a leg up and over the Nord's head, and with practiced movement (and desperate effort) threw the man backwards in a wrestler's throw.

Ericc Red-Sword was still shaking his head in confusion, trying to figure out what the daedra had happened exactly as the shape of Ivanos' practice sword came into focus, inches from his own face. Then a wide smile broke across his face, and he accepted the hand offered by the younger boy.

"BY THE GODS, lad, that was well done!" he roared approvingly, clasping a hand to the young boy's back as the others swarmed forward to do the same. Ahmed moved around the circle, collecting the various wagers that had been placed by the lookers-on during the fight. Ivanos weathered the praise as best he could, wincing as his sore arm was pumped in well-meaning handshakes and thunderous blows were pounded on his back.

* * *

"Not bad," Decurion Rhazgo murmured. The Khajiit was big for his species, but he was still slender next to the big Orsimer next to him. "Looks like Camp Orsimer is turning out recruits as promised."

"The boy's competent enough," Morgen grunted. "But very soon, we'll be moving down-river towards Anvil and Kvatch. We've fared well enough against disorganized Breton states, bandit leaders, and rogue Nordic factions. How will our luck hold when we face a veteran Legion, battle-hardened and ready?"

"We'll burn that bridge when we come to it, won't we?" the cat chuckled, but then his own expression grew as grave as his friends'. "We knew that confrontation with Cyrodiil _had_ to come eventually, old friend. And thankfully, Skyrim is _our_ ally in this war. We only need to fight in one direction, rather than facing a two-front war like we expected."

Morgen grunted noncommittedly. "This will get much uglier, 'ere the end, brother."

Rhazgo nodded in agreement.

"True," he acknowledged, "But that's all the more reason to let the soldiers have their fun _now_ , before they're mourning their dead, or giving account of themselves to the afterlife."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **This week we get an inside view of the** ** _Vodahmin_** **Army, and the multi-cultural nature of their ranks. And now we have moved** ** _that_** **much closer to the inevitable invasion of Cyrodiil, and the Witch-Queen/Wolf-Queen's push for the Imperial City.**

 **As always, please leave all thoughts/suggestions/reviews/comments/constructive criticisms in the reviews below, or PM me directly. I always love hearing from you, even if it's just "Good job," or "I liked it." You are all awesome.**

 **ROCK ON, my friends!**

 **-Tusken1602**

* * *

Reviewer Responses:

DarkFireCat5241999 – Very true. But then again, you can kill Alduin with a iron sword, given enough time.

Bloodwolf432 – My hope to use even the "filler" as world-building and moving the story along.

Spartanzerg75 – That's my hope. No country is without it's own internal struggles, even the Covenant.

Blaise Welshman – If they liked the first story enough, I figure they'll come over to the second. If they didn't like the story enough to make the effort, then it's no great loss. I'm very much in the camp of quality reviewers (like yourself) over quantity.

GalacticHalfling, tylermech66, Guest – I mean, there was no part of the report that wasn't true, and nothing that even a casual observer of a Covenant battle could've given. Also, it's still a _very_ limited picture of the Vodahmin tactics (i.e. no mention of giants or mammoths).

NotRevan – Tala is in VERY great danger of losing herself, yes. But I think for all her badass-queen posing, she's still a Wyoming girl deep down. Deep, deep, down.

Rabastan – Oh, it'll be brought up again, no worries. Not the kind of thing that you can forget about. If a solid percentage of YOUR countrymen were being held in a foreign land as slaves, would YOU forget about them?

badkidoh, omegansapphire42, jdboss1 – Thanks so much! Appreciate you taking the time to review!


	9. Chapter 9: A New Imperial Council

***PORT OF ANVIL*  
CYRODIIL**

The hum of conversation came to a halt as Tiberius Mede, Emperor of Cyrodiil and the Tamrielic Empire, strode into the room. He allowed himself a thin smile as he saw all the figures come to their feet as he entered, only resuming their seats after he did so. His eyes darted around the room, taking in the names and faces:

Gaius Maro, _Imperator_ of the Cyrodiil Legions, and Grand Chancellor of the Empire.

High Chief Baajirra of Anequina, standing next to his southern counterpart, Chieftainess S'hila Jatani of Pelletine.

Lord Zimba made a very imposing figure, the ape-like lord of Valenwood resplendent in golden armor, crafted to carefully mimic the elven style. Beside him, Kelan-Tel of Black Marsh was clad in scarlet lamellar armor from head to foot.

High Seeker Aldnaro made a bow of greeting that was _slightly_ deeper than manners required, the leader of the Aldmeri Dominion (or what remained of it) the only one in the room _not_ in armor.

"Still no answer from Morvayn?" he asked, and _Imperator_ Maro shook his head.

"Nor from _Silvenar_ Riverdale of North Valenwood, your Highness."

"Then that is an answer in and of itself," Aldnaro spoke softly, and Tiberius nodded.

"Khajiit," the Emperor continued, "Pledge yourselves to me, and I will grant you back the lands my father took from Elsweyr."

The two warlords eyed one another suspiciously as Tiberius turned towards the rest of the party.

"Lord Zimba, all the lands that you take from North Valenwood I will allow you to keep."

Zimba puffed out his massive chest, thumping a meaty fist against it in a clank of armored might.

"King Kelan?"

The Argonian ruler inclined his head in a regal nod.

"Black Marsh will stand with Cyrodiil," he replied, revealing rows of teeth in a predatory grin. "And in exchange…?"

"Humble the Dark Elves, and bring the Dunmer to the negotiating table, and everything south of Mournhold will be yours," Tiberius replied, drawing a hand across an imaginary line on the table.

"With your permission then, Emperor?" Kelan-Tel asked, "I must prepare the Children of the Hist for war."

Tiberius made a dismissive gesture with a wave of his hand, and Kelan-Tel took in a slow breath at the slight of being dismissed like a _cupbearer_ or a chambermaid as he moved into the hall. Two golden-scaled kinsmen fell in beside him as the trio walked back to where their horses were waiting.

"My lord," one of them hissed in the lizard-folk's tongue, "he cannot possibly hope to deliver on that promise, not if he wishes the Dunmer to _ever_ bow to his rule."

"No," Kelan-Tel agreed, shaking his head. "He cannot. Pose as he might, this _Tiberius_ Mede is not his father. But _when_ he reneges on his word, that could be a perfect excuse for further action."

"And what of the Witch-Queen, my king?" the other asked. "The Covenant are massing an army in Hammerfell, just south of Elinhir."

"They'd be fools _not to_ ," the ruler of Black Marsh nodded. "But I expect that is where the High Seeker comes in. The ape and the cats will keep Riverdale and his 'North Valenwood' pinned and on the defensive in the south. In the meantime, the Altmer will reinforce the Imperial garrisons of the Gold Coast, to hold back the Covenant forces while he deals with his Nordic problem.

"Too many," hissed a gold-scaled advisor, "Too many irons in the fire: the two Khajiit rulers will be at one another's throats before too long. He will have to choose which one to back at that point. He cannot keep his promises to _both_."

"Of course he can't," Kelan-Tel snorted disdainfully. "If he had an acorn's worth of wisdom, young Tiberius would leave the Dragonborn and the Dunmer to their snow and ash-covered lands. He'd secure Valenwood, Elsweyr, and make sure to keep the Dominion firmly under his heel, possibly even make some kind of pact with the Witch-Queen to keep her Covenant out of this. Then and only then would he move north with a united, irresistible force."

"Imperials and their pride," the first advisor shook his head. "Try to seize _all_ the fish in the net, and you will gain _none of them_."

"And quite possibly lose _all_ of them," Kelan-Tel finished the Argonian proverb. "Yes, and when that happens, it will be the Interregnum and the Age of War all over again."

"We must move to secure our own interests," the other advisor said carefully. "The Dunmer will not be in a position to attack us if we…"

"We will do as the young 'emperor' commands," Kelan-Tel cut him off, but could not keep the mockery from his pronunciation of the title. "We will move the Children of the His to invade southern Morrowind at once."

"My lord," the interrupted advisor objected. "It's a barren wasteland, worthless to us."

Kelan-Tel actually paused to cuff his young kinsman on the back of the head, causing the trinkets and ornaments on his horns to rattle sharply.

"Don't be more of a soft-shelled idiot than your nesting brood made you!" he rasped. "It is certainly a wasteland _now,_ but in a single generation, Southern Morrowind will be the most fertile farmland in all of Tamriel, when the ashes are plowed under the soil, and the fields watered with newly-dug canals and irrigation ditches."

A look of growing realization spread across the other two Argonians' faces.

"Within a generation, the Dunmer that are _now_ living in a barren wasteland will be singing our praises for conquering them, bringing with us manpower, organization, and resources to refarm and reclaim what was lost. In _two_ generations, we'll be remembered and revered by every Dunmer in Tamriel as liberators and saviors of their people."

 ***THE COUNT'S ARMS TAVERN*  
ANVIL **

**CYRODIIL**

"So," Baajirra sighed, sipping the cup of wine in front of him. "He call _you_ into a private conference as well?"

Chieftainess S'hila nodded in answer as she took a sip of her own wine, taking a moment to appreciate the sheer _unlikeliness_ of the two greatest rivals in Elsweyr sitting at a table _alone_ together; no entourage, no secretaries, not even any bodyguards.

 _That you can see_ , the suspicious part of her mind reminded her.

"Allow me to guess," Baajirra grinned, "he promised you Baajirra's head, after the war is over?"

"On a spike," she purred, blatantly taking delight again at the mental image. "How did you guess?"

"Because he made Baajirra the same offer."

Her cup paused on the way to her mouth, and her expression froze.

"Liar."

"It went something like, 'I trust _you,_ my dear Khajiit, it's the other _traitor_ I have reservations about,' if I recall correctly," Baajirra shrugged, giving a rather passable imitation of the Imperial's haughty tones.

Now the cup slammed back down on the table. Those had been Tiberius Mede's _exact_ words to her. Either this no good _naraj_ had overheard them somehow, which she severely doubted, given the Penitus Oculatus' security, or he was telling the truth. But if he was…

"Why do you tell S'hila this?" she hissed, feeling her hackles rise on the back of her neck.

"Because Baajirra believes that Tiberius Mede _-born_ is manipulating _Khajiit_ ," her northern counterpart hissed back, pointedly giving the Cyrodiil ruler his original surname. "And Baajirra also believes that the Khajiit have relied on _others_ for too long, pink-skin and knife-ear alike. Elsweyr must stand together, if Khajiit are to ride out the storm that comes."

"S'hila will _never_ own you as King of Elsweyr," the southern chieftainess stated in a even voice, a statement of fact, devoid of threat.

"No more than Baajirra would follow _you_ ," the big cat rumbled back. "But Baajirra does not think that _needs_ make Anequina and Pelletine enemies. Baajirra and S'hila must be strong _together_ for the sake of Khajiit _everywhere_."

From her place in the rafters, a hooded figure made another note in the transcription of the conversation taking place _just_ below her. Stealthily, slowly, and deliberately, the figure moved into the shadow, and then _became_ the shadow.

 _Another scroll to send back north with Sapphire,_ Karliah thought to herself as she tucked the bit of paper inside her cloak. _The Boss is going to want to know about this…_

* * *

 **Author's Note:  
** **Well, I'm not dead, and this story is still going on. Much slower, with boring real life closing in around me, but it will continue all the same, until we get to the ending! Just call me G.R.R. Martin. :P**

 **Thanks everyone for your patience and your continued support of the story!  
YOU ROCK! **

**-Tusken1602**

* * *

Reviewer Responses: 

Blaise Welshman, tylermech66 - I can always count you, my friends! ;)

griezz1 - "The Queen's Fleas." I like it.

badkidoh, Guest - I also love this concept, and I hope to be bringing some more ideas like this into Skyrim. There are tons of modern ideas that could be introduced to actually HELP people in their everyday lives, rather than just "Guns."

ranma hibiki - Just because someone was born in the world that YOU know as a video game does NOT mean that they are a stupid NPC. ;)

Galactic Halfling, Cristobal Alvarez, Shadow Pegasus, NotRevan - I'm hoping that they will *kinda reoccurring, as in anytime we want to see what the common Vodahmin soldier is thinking/feeling, we'll revisit this group of soldiers.

Rabastan - They are used to complete government works, like building road networks, fortifications, and other public works. They are not just available to anyone in the Covenant, no. Overall the Covenant LOVE Tala. Rest of Tamriel... not so much.

Wiwerse, Spartanzerg75 - Classic ideas. Worth thinking about.

Serpent - It is still in the Rift, and loyal to the Dragonborn for saving them from the giants.

albesp93 - I could be coy and say that they DID talk about it "off-camera" as it were, but the truth is I also forgot to bring up that particular point (which is a good and sound one). But then again, the Empire (and Skyrim) didn't make any promises to the Vodahmin, did they? They just agreed NOT to attack them (which technically, they didn't, they just ferried the Dominion back to Summerset Isle). Can't break promises if you didn't make any...

Leaf Ninja, Inuyoukai52, Bloodwolf432 - Thanks! I appreciate you taking the time to leave me your reviews!


	10. Chapter 10: The Time Has Come

***HIGH KING'S HOST*  
HELGEN  
SKYRIM**

The gathering around the table was one that Llewellyn Dragonborn still wasn't quite used to: each of the jarls of Skyrim was gathered here, along with a few others:

Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun,  
Jarl Elisif the Fair of Solitude,

Jarl Maven Black-briar of The Rift,

Jarl Dengeir of Falkreath,

Jarl Kraldar of Winterhold,

Jarl Idgrod the Younger of Hjaalmarch,

Jarl Brunwulf Free-Winter of Eastmarch,

Jarl Brina Merilis of The Pale,

Legion General Rikke,

Blades Commander Delphine,

Lord Chancellor Esbern the Wise,

And _Imperator_ Tullius.

"Once again, we are gathered here for war, friends."

Eyes turned towards him, as he had managed to enter the room unnoticed. Seats were pushed back, and the few seated figures shot to their feet at the sight of their High King. Behind him, he was sure that the face of the Arch-Mage of Winterhold was split into a shameless grin. He strode to the throne at the far end of the table and sat, which the others took as their cue to return to _their_ seats around the long table.

"What is our current strength?" he asked.

General Rikke leaned forward first, after receiving a nod from Tullius.

"With the 9th _and_ the 12th with us, we have two full-strength legions: 12,000 ready to march," she reported. "But several cohorts of the 12th are _very_ green. This will be their _first_ real action."

Llewellyn nodded and turned his attention to the man beside her. Balgruuf shifted in his seat, and Llew saw with a pang of shock that the golden hair had begun to go grey, both above the ears, and scattered through the beard that covered the jarl's face.

"Whiterun brings three thousand heavy horse, sire," he reported. "another five hundred or so lightly-armored."

Around the table, each of the others jarls made their own reports, each hold according to their strengths: Solitude had nearly two thousand heavy infantry, trained in classic Nordic style, as did Windhelm. Brina Merilis only had five hundred, and Kraldar of Winterhold even fewer. Those holds were the poorest, but they were still determined to do their part. The Black-Briars of the Reach had put their ill-gotten wealth to work for the High King, and the two thousand soldiers of their levy showed it. Jarl Idgrod was the youngest ruler here, but she was still clad in armor and determined to lead her soldiers from Hjaalmarch. They were lighter-armored than any of the other detachments, but nonetheless brave for that. Dengeir of Falkreath's people were skilled archers, woods-folk who had grown up all their lives in the heavy forests around their home. For the most part, each of the holds' levies were highly specialized, or good at only one thing. But that one thing they were _very_ good at. United, the Nords of Skyrim were a formidable force to be reckoned with.

Esbern folded his hands back into his robes, and sighed before answering in turn:

"We have supplies to feed the army from the royal treasury for a full three-month campaign," he reported. "Any longer than that, and we'll have to begin foraging _heavily_ in whatever area we're occupying."

The door on the far side of the room opened, and Llew felt a smile spread across his face as heads turned to see a young man in red armor enter the room.

"Alesan," he nodded in greeting of his adopted son.

"Father," the prince nodded, and then lifted the scroll he held in his hand.

"As we feared?"

The young boy… _no,_ Llew's subconscious corrected him, _young_ _man_ _now,_ nodded his head.

"Argonian forces have crossed the border in force. They took Narsis five days ago, and Kragenmoor is under siege. King Lleril is rallying the other Dunmer Houses, but does not think he will have sufficient forces to break the siege."

Murmurs ran up and down the table, and suggestions became to come in, fast and furious, ranging from doing _nothing_ to moving the army in force towards the Dunmer border.

"If the Argonians have begun the attack, we must assume that Tiberius is about to do the same," Tullius spoke firmly, once he gained the room's attention. "His army still sits in Bruma, ready to move, and outnumbers our force by two to one."

"Which is why we cannot divide our forces now," Dengeir of Falkreath's lands were the closest to the threat, and it would be his people who would suffer the worst in the war to come. It only made sense that his would be the voice of caution.

"We _must_ , or risk sending the message to our allies that they are on their own," Sarai Gellarus answered before Llew could. "If that's true, then they might as well bend the knee to Tiberius now, rather than shed blood to keep Argonian blades from Riften and Windhelm."

"Jarl Balgruuf."

The hum of conversation ceased at the High King's voice, and the ruler of Whiterun straightened in his seat.

"You will have the command of our western force." There was no question or hesitation in the voice, and the uncertainty in the room _eased_ slightly as the various warriors recognized the voice of absolute decision. "Move the army to the border and give battle if Tiberius attempts to cross it."

"As you command, my king," Balgruuf nodded, and then his brows furrowed, "What, um… what force will I have _at_ my command?"

"General Rikke and the 12th will form the core of your army," Llewellyn answered, nodding at the Nordic woman, "and you will have the levies from the holds. General Tullius and the 9th will come with me and the Blades to relieve Kragenmoor."

"My king," Tullius objected. "If you say march, I will march. There is no need for you to accompany the relief force."

There was a slight growl from the rest of the Nordic jarls at their High King being so contradicted, but Llew lifted a hand to silence them.

"But that's where you're wrong, my friend," he grinned, "The Blades will be coming with me, and our new weapons will do much to even the disparity of numbers, I think. Delphine?"

"The Blades stand ready with the… new ordinance, Majesty," the tall commander reported.

"Jarl Kraldar, the Winterhold contingent will accompany the High King's banner as well."

Kraldar nodded in acknowledgement, straightening unconsciously at the honor done to his hold and steading. Llewellyn stood to his feet, an action copied by all the room's occupants, and began to move pieces around on the map table in front of him.

"We'll drive back the Argonians, and hopefully strike a hard-enough blow to perhaps keep them out the rest of this needless war," he stated gravely, shifting two of the figures back towards Cyrodiil. "Then we will march westward, making directly for Cheydinhal and Bruma."

There was a moment of silence as the commanders and leaders took in the plan of the campaign to come.

"A risky move, your grace," the Jarl of Riften stated slowly. "Much depends on these, hmmm, new weapons."

"Indeed it does, Jarl Maven," Llew acknowledged his one-time superior. "But these are risky times. And the old adage remains true: Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

* * *

 ***VODAHMIN ARMY ENCAMPMENT*  
** **SOUTH OF ELINHIR  
HAMMERFELL**

"Ahh…"

Serana leaned back on the cushions, panting breathlessly as the sweat gave her entire body a bright sheen in the candlelight. Beneath the blankets, another lump stirred, until Tala's face appeared beside her, likewise glistening.

"Am I that good?" the High Mother of the Vodahmin grinned impishly.

"I was just wondering how many more times we're going to be able to do this."

"What do mean?"

"Well," Serana replied slowly, "we are setting off on a great campaign. Tends to cut down on free time to do, you know… this."

"Wait, war means no more sex?"

Tala's brows furrowed, and her eyes went wide in mock horror. She stood to her feet, and began striding _very_ suggestively across the tent's floor.

"Never mind, I've changed my mind! Send the message out for the army to go home. There will be no war, the Queen commands… hey!"

Tala dodged a pillow, and began laughing as the vampiress tackled her around the waist, allowing herself to be pulled back down on the blankets. Thus lost in one another's affections, the pair almost missed the clank of metal-on-metal as the guards outside saluted, and the tent door was pulled back.

"My queen," a voice began, "I'm sorry for distu- OH GODS UM… I'm Sorry!"

"Nevermind," Tala laughed, "Come in, Nelkir!"

"Tala!?" hissed Serana, grabbing in the dark for a dress robe, or at least a blanket to cover her nudity.

"What?" Tala giggled. "Do you think the boy hasn't seen breasts before?"

A young figure reentered the tent, and Nelkir Balgruufson immediately directed his eyes at a _very_ interesting patch of ground, well away from the two nude figures that reclined on the low couch.

"I've received a message, my queen. Ummmm, from my father, I mean. Lord Icando said to, that is, um… he thought it was best that I… umm…"

Tala took pity on the messenger and reached for a robe of her own, tying the silk around her waist before turning back to the _very_ red-faced boy.

"What was the message, Nelkir?"

Nelkir looked comically relieved as he handed a small scroll to the Witch-Queen of the _Vodahmin_ Covenant.

"It's war, your Majesty," he explained. "The Argonians have invaded Morrowind, and the High King has moved with a small portion of his army to assist the Dunmer. My father and the rest of the army are standing on the defensive at Falkreath, ready to repel any invasion from Cyrodiil."

Tala looked down at the scribbled writing, and moved to a the nearby table to better see the writing by the small candle there. Then she straightened slowly, and handed it back to the boy.

"This is the moment we've been waiting for," she said in a flat, even tone.

"It is?"

The boy blushed all over again, both at his failing to contain his outburst, and the way the young voice had _cracked_ at the last word, betraying the awkward time of life he was going through at the moment.

"I mean," Nelkir cleared his throat, "It is, your Majesty?"

"Send word to my lords Borkul and Piquine," Tala replied, without answering the question. "Tell them to get this army into march. We move out at first light."

"Your Grace."

Nelkir Balgruufson offered a formal military salute as he beat a hasty retreat from the tent, and Tala turned to Serana.

"It'll take them at _least_ twenty minutes to strike this tent," she purred suggestively, untying the robe and letting the garment fall to the ground as she strode back towards her consort.

"Which is just enough time to get into our _armor_ , and not scandalize half the army," Serana laughed, pushing away from the hungry embrace.

"I've been a terrible influence on you, my love," Tala sighed, shaking her head in mock pain. "I've made you horribly responsible."

"And I've made _you_ horribly incorrigible," Serana chuckled, pausing long enough to plant another kiss on her lover's lips.

"I don't know how long this war will be," Tala said quietly, her tone suddenly low and serious as she looked into her lover's eyes.

"But we know our destination," Serana replied, cupping Tala's face in her hands. "And we know our foe. How can we lose, my love?"

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Well, everyone, as the chapter title might have suggested, the Time Has Come. This will be the last "council of talking heads" chapter for a while, and we will probably have several battles and conflicts in the next couple of chapters, of the which I am still editing with battle strategies and tactics.**

 **Hopefully, those chapters will be up soon! As always, your thoughts/ suggestions/ comments/ constructive criticisms are always welcome in the reviews and my PMs, even if it's just "Good job," or "I liked it." You are, each of you, awesome!**

 **ROCK ON, my friends!**

 **\- Tusken 1602**

* * *

Reviewer Responses:

tylermech66 – I would say that greatest is the idiot who does not know he is an idiot.

GalacticHalfling – NO! Super sneaky, our lad Tiberius is!

JimmyHall24 – I am in fact alive! ;)

Blaise Welshman – A lot of people have enchanted items, but for the sake of this story, I'm making them a bit rarer than the vanilla game. Magicians' time and skills are expensive, after all.

Chillingbear, Guest – I'll do my best, but there is no plot armor in this Skyrim.

Spartanzerg75 – Absolutely! Historically, great whopping battles were a lot rarer than most people seem to think.

Rabastan – Altmer? Betray their allies? Surely not.

griezz1 – A even a giant moose can be brought down by enough fleas…

badkidoh, Dumnezeu, Bloodwolf432 – Thanks so much, my friends!


	11. Chapter 11: And Now, War

***GARLAS MALATAR*  
** **NORTH OF ANVIL  
** **CYRODIIL**

The moonlight illuminated the Ayleid ruins. Paradoxically, however, this posed a different problem altogether, ruining the night-vision of the Altmer who waited in the shadows with bated breath. Aldnaro focused his eyes, trying to piece the black shadows created by the twin full moons. It was a rare enough occasion for Masser and Secunda to both be full, and the light that surrounded them was only a little dimmer than that of full day. But such light could also play tricks on your eyes: if you stared at a bush long enough, you could swear by all Eight Divines that was moving towards you, right up until you lifted your bow and put a shaft through it, only to be clouted by your superior officer for betraying your position. But even so, Aldnaro was _sure that…_

His right hand flickered, and a bright orb of Magelight flickered to life, cast into one of the areas ahead completely obscured by shadow. The comparatively harsh light suddenly showed several crouching forms, only some of them humanoid. The Altmer soldiers sprang to their feet from their own hiding places, their weapons raised. No war-cries split the air, and neither did any startled orders from officers. For a few tense moments, the only sound that could be heard was the creak of fully-drawn bow staves, and the low _rasp_ of weapons being slowly drawn from sheathes. Then a slender figure at the head of the discovered party lowered her hood, and Aldnaro stared into eyes as green as his own.

"You would be Aldnaro, the High Seeker of the Aldmeri Dominion," the woman said slowly. It was as much statement as question, and the voice that addressed him radiated authority and _gravitas_.

"And you would be Tala Niwot, Queen and High Mother of the _Vodahmin_ ," Aldnaro replied in kind. In all the campaign (or rather, the frenzied, scrambling fighting retreat) on Summerset Isle, he had never _seen_ the Witch-Queen in person. He had read his spies' reports and even seen the remarkably life-like sketches that had been done of her likeness, but even so, he somehow expected the woman who had shook the entire continent of Tamriel to its core to be… taller.

Her eyes were also flicking up and down his own form, no doubt making the same involuntary snap judgements that all fighters and warriors made when meeting one another. The long moments of tension stretched into minutes, with neither side moving or speaking, until at last, the _Vodahmin_ Queen spoke:

"Is everything prepared?"

Aldnaro nodded and made a gesture with his left hand. Weapons on both sides were slowly, and almost grudgingly, lowered.

"Tiberius has almost stripped the coastal garrisons of loyal troops and has allowed the Dominion to make up the difference in numbers," Aldnaro continued. "It would appear that the bulk of his forces are preparing to invade Skyrim in a few weeks' time."

Tala Niwot made no reply but made a gesture of her own with a free hand. A Minotaur grunted some of its own unintelligible dialect, but within moments, a lit torch was in its hand, and it moved to a nearby bronze brazier in the ruins. Hefting the torch, the oil within the signal blazed to life, causing those nearby to wince as their eyes made the harsh adjustments to this new light source.

Out on the ocean, almost impossibly distant, more signal lights lit in answer: a long row of barely-discernable dots. Likewise, down the coastline, distant fires could be seen sprouting to life, all the way down toward the nearby city of Anvil.

"My daughter?" Aldnaro forced his voice to be even, stripping it of the raw emotions that lay just beneath the surface.

Tala made a gesture, and a young woman was pushed forward, bounded at the wrists and gagged. The centaur holding the rope tied around her neck made two swift motions, and the bonds parted beneath the sharp, curved blade.

"FATHER?"

Aldnaro nodded, feeling tears well up despite his best efforts.

"Eriserane."

His voice broke, and the young woman bounded forward, and embraced him.

"FATHER!"

The rest of the Altmer contingent consciously averted their eyes from the tearful reunion, giving their High Seeker as much privacy as the moment allowed. After a moment however, the slender figure of the _Vodahmin_ ruler took a step forward.

"The rest of the captives will be delivered when the Imperial City Falls." The voice was calm and even, devoid of any mockery or gloating tones. "You can question your daughter, and she'll tell you that they're all still alive… and undefiled."

With an effort of will, Aldnaro gathered himself, and stood to his feet. However, it was his second, Loriann, who spoke up next.

"How do we know you'll keep your word?" There was understandable incredulity and anger in the tone, and Aldnaro made a slight hissing noise through his teeth to silence any further questions or (more likely) insults from escaping the younger Altmer.

"You don't," Queen Tala shrugged, and there was a malevolence now in the grin on her face. "But you do know that if you do NOT do what I say, then even if you succeeded in killing all of my army that is landing on the shores of Cyrodiil today, you'd never make it to Markarth before all of the hostages died very slow, _very painful_ deaths."

There was a stir on both sides: of shocked horror among the High Elves, and one of mirthful amusement among the Covenant.

"And believe me," a red-eyed woman grinned beside her queen, "vampires can be incredibly creative when it comes to such work."

Aldnaro forced his hand away from his sword-hilt and clenched it into a fist instead.

"Are there any changes to the plan, then?" he asked, almost between gritted teeth.

Tala shook her head.

"Have your troops in Valenwood move against Kvatch and Skingrad. I don't need you to _take_ those cities, I just need the soldiers there to be tied down in a siege. My army will be marching directly for the Imperial City."

Aldnaro nodded, grateful for the opportunity to turn his mind to military maneuvers and tactics.

"Even if you take the Imperial City," he stated slowly, trying again to keep emotion from his tone, "that won't make you Empress. And there's still the Imperial garrisons of Chorrel and Bruma in your way, to say nothing of Tiberius' main army."

"Of course, it won't make me _Empress_ ," nodded Tala, shocking the High Seeker at the frank admission. "But it _will_ give me control of the Imperial City, the hub nearly all travel and trade of Tamriel. Cooperate, and you'll have Valenwood re-secured, and possibly more Imperial territory to add to your recovering Dominion."

There was a pause, and then a _distinct chill_ entered the hitherto-neutral tone of the _Vodahmin_ High Mother.

"Or you can betray us and explain to the rest of your nobles why _your_ daughter was returned unharmed, only to have you condemn the rest to death."

Aldnaro winced involuntarily. That would be the death blow to whatever respect and authority he still held within the Dominion. Technically speaking, The High Seeker was still answerable to the Thalmor Council. The fact that most of that council was dead had made that by-law moot for the most part, and he had ruled these past years on an "Emergency" and "Provisional" basis. Most of them were maddeningly (and understandably) furious at having to work alongside the same people who had ravaged their lands and humbled their armies. But each of them also had relatives and loved ones in the slave-pits of the _Vodahmin_ and were desperate to get them back. Betraying their long-time enemies of Cyrodiil seemed like a small enough price to pay for their safe return.

The High Seeker choked back the words that were on his tongue and opted instead for a wordless nod before signaling to his men. Taking his daughter under his arm, he gently guided her back to the boats that had brought them there. As they neared the water's edge, he saw more large fires in the distance.

 _Anvil burns_.

The Dominion troops within had been tasked with securing the coastal forts and dropping the great chain stretched across the harbor. If they had been successful, then the _Vodahmin_ navy would be sailing into the great city now, with war, fire, and bloodshed in their hands.

 _"Auri-El, Julianos, Stendarr, guide my hands_ ," the High Seeker prayed silently. "If _the Witch-Queen keeps her word, then I have delivered a significant portion of my people from slavery and chains."_

 _And if she does not,_ some small part of his brain echoed after the spoken words, _then I have delivered Tamriel into the hands of a mad-woman, leading an army of predators that would devour the world._

* * *

 ***ILIATH TEMPLE*  
NEAR KRAGENMOOR  
** **MORROWIND**

"We are drawing near to the city now," Sarai Gellarus, Arch-Mage of Winterhold, pulled her cloak closer around her. "We should have been encountering Argonian scouts by now."

"They have no need for scouts. Tullius commented dryly. "Their damned _Hist_ trees read the land and warn them of imminent danger. Believe me, ma'am: they already know we're here, and exactly how many of us there are."

"Which is why I have no intention of a surprise attack," Llew grinned mirthlessly. "Kelan-Tel knows I'm here, and he'll be coming to meet me."

"He wants to deal with us away from the main city," nodded Jarl Kraldar. "If he allows us to get to close, then he risks the city rushing out in a sortie and getting hit from both sides at once."

"The flat plains between here and the city are our best bet," Llewellyn stated, making a chopping motion with his hand. "They'll try to outflank us first, and then when that fails, they'll come at our center."

"They'll have most of their Guar cavalry facing us," Tullius stated matter-of-factly. "And Kagouti."

"Deploy the palisades and array your legionnaires in solid line," Llewelleyn nodded. "Kraldar, have your mounted troops stand in reserve. When they break against our line, you're to cut them off from regaining their siege works."

The jarl nodded, and with a grunt, urged his war-bear forward. Those behind were mounted on the sturdy Great Elks of their homeland and wheeled to follow him. Tullius made a salute before urging his own mount forward to take command of the legionnaires deploying from column of march into line of battle.

"Lewis," Sarah said quietly, taking advantage of their relative privacy. "The Argonians have _won_ every war they've embarked upon, since Tiber Septim's time. These are the warriors that even threw back Mehrunes Dagon's hordes and invaded Oblivion."

Lewis Heron nodded, and then rolled his shoulders back, feeling the Dragonbone armor settle on his shoulders. Then he opened his eyes, and was Llewellyn Dragonborn once more.

"And we'll use that confidence against them, my love."

He dismounted his horse and drew both curved Akaviri blades at this belt. Then he lifted his head and Shouted to the Heavens:

"OOH- DAH VIING!"

* * *

 **ARGONIAN CAMP  
KRAGENMOOR  
MORROWIND**

"Why do they wait?"

The young Argonian prince received a clout to the back of his head in response to this question. Kelan-Tel hissed as he leaned forward on the table. Guthra-Mor was one of the Princely Brood, and if he was going to rule alongside, or perhaps over, his many brothers and sisters, he would have to learn statecraft and military tactics.

"Because he isn't a fool," he replied, tapping the tiny icon of a dragon on the table. "He comes to us, he must fight us on _our_ chosen ground. This way, he chooses the battlefield."

The Argonian king turned towards a robed and shrouded figure.

"Reeh-Julan?"

The impossibly-ancient shaman had a hand buried deep in the earth, panting heavily. With his free hand, he began to sketch lines in the ash-covered sand. When the words came, it was like great branches straining in a gale:

"Feet… here."

The thin finger moved again, and military formation took shape, breathed into life by the _Hist_ , connected directly to the earth and seeing all:

"Hooves… here."

Then there was a sigh, and his acolytes moved to catch him before the ancient one could hit the ground.

"Bear him to _my_ tent," Kelan-Tel ordered. "See that he is given every possible care."

The Argonian generals and commanders rumbled approvingly as they beheld the formation the shaman had sketched into the ground, as if seeing the army laid out from the eyes of a hawk. Kelan-Tel looked over the formation with a trained veteran's eye, and smiled.

"He's overconfident, our Dragonborn."

Several of the younger warriors gave their ruler a confused look.

"See?" Kelan-Tel leaned forward, using his sword to point out the various troop positions. "He has most of his troops on the flanks, here, and here. He's expecting us to make flanking attacks, or to work his way around, as we did in Elsweyr and the wars against the Dominion. But the center of his line, here, is a wedge shape protruding from the rest of his formation. And there he is weakest. He's not expecting a head-on attack."

"Because that's never been our people's style," the younger princeling who had spoken before said quietly.

"Exactly," nodded Kelan-Tel. "He's no fool. But I'm afraid this time he may have been a little too clever. En-ja?"

A female Argonian stiffened in the corner, saluting her sovereign.

"Move the shellbacks into line, and engage the flanks, exactly as he expects."

Kelan-Tel pointed a sword at a tall, swarthy, gold-scaled Argonian.

"Deethmena, you will move our mounted forces here, into the center. We'll give Llewellyn Dragonborn some time to reinforce his flanks, and then…"

Kelan-Tel stabs the curved blade into the dirt, drawing a line down the middle of the sand drawing.

"We sever his line in two, and drive the two halves apart, throwing everything we have into the gap."

 ***SOME TIME LATER***

Kelan-Tel stood astride his Kagouti mount, which was as black as his own armor. From his vantage point here on the heights, he could see the entire battlefield stretch out in front of him. If he looked over his shoulder down the opposite slope, he could see the besieged city of Kragenmoor, and the Argonian siege works around it.

"So close, poor lambs," he mused quietly, "and yet, so far away."

His flanking attacks had done precisely what he had hoped: slowly, _almost_ imperceptibly, columns of legionnaires could be seen marching from their positions in the center towards the right or left flank, as needed. Meanwhile, the center continued their slow, uncontested advance, drawing them ahead of their flanks in a distinctive wedge formation.

"Too far, fools," he cackled, closing a fist in triumph before giving the signal.

From their hiding place in the ravine in front of him, _thousands_ of mounted Argonians spurred their two-legged mounts forward in a rushing, pell-mell gallop. He saw the Nordic line hesitate, but there was far too little time to maneuver, to respond…

 _What the Hist?_

The front line of the Legion directly opposite the cavalry charge was throwing themselves flat, hugging the ground as if prostrating themselves before the oncoming horde. Behind them, he recognized the distinctive armor of the Blades, Llewellyn Dragonborn's personal guard, lift… _where those spears?_ He thought incredulously. _No, they're far too short to be of any…_

Flashes of fire burst from the tiny weapons, and then a roar like thunder, impossibly loud, rippled across the battlefield. Kelan-Tel stood in his saddle, horrified as he saw the Argonian cavalry charge transform into an indomitable horde into a huddled confused mass. Those in the front ranks who survived drew up sharply, turning their heads to try and find what spell or weapon had felled their comrades on either side of them. Wounded beasts screamed and flailed wildly, throwing off their riders and colliding with comrades, all of which threw the charge into further confusion.

"What sorcery is this?" Kelan-Tel heard a hoarse voice whisper, before realizing that it was his own.

As if in horrible mockery, the Blades took two strides forward, and then the first rank knelt, revealing a second row behind them leveling identical mystery weapons.

 _BOOM._

The noise was loud to Kelan-Tel, so he could only imagine the deafening roar that it must be down there on the plain. Another mass of Argonian riders and mounts fell, and then suddenly the whole force surged forward again. It was the only logical choice: they had to close the gap between them and these cursed… whatever they were that were slaughtering their comrades left and right. If they could get in close to the enemy infantry…

The legionnaires stood to their feet again, obscuring the Blades, and a shrill trumpet sounded. The legionnaires bent forward and hurled their _pila_ into the mass of mounted Argonians. Had the soldiers from Black Marsh they still been in ordered ranks, it wouldn't have mattered, as the ranks behind would have simply closed in around the fallen. But with the ordered ranks thrown into one roiling, churning mass of mounts and riders, they couldn't possibly miss.

Then the legionnaires were throwing themselves flat again, and the Nords were leveling their mysterious, terrible weapons again. Again with the flashes of fire, and again with the roar of a thunderstorm, and even more of the mounted cavalry fell, never to rise again.

Llewellyn Dragonborn _had_ tricked him.

The deceptive overconfidence had all been a ploy; a chance to humble the proud Nord that he couldn't resist. And now he saw the center ranks of the Nords part yet again, and their own cavalry, led by… _was that a man riding a bear,_ charged forward, hurling themselves into the confused and disordered remnants of his once-mighty cavalry.

"Send in the reserve!" Kelan-Tel barked. "Now!"

But even as the order left his lips, he felt a sinking feeling in his soul. He had to hold back that attack, before his own forces were split in two, as he had intended for his attackers.

"Send word to the siege camp," he continued, "Tell the officer there to prepare for…"

A roar cut off the rest of his sentence. It was not the loudness of the roar that sent alarm and fear into the faces around him, but rather its origin: directly above them. Whirling in the saddle, Kelan-Tel saw a winged shape come through the clouds, making _directly_ at him.

"SCATTER!"

"YOL TOOR SHUL!"

The panicked order came seconds before a pillar of flame descended upon the command post, and in its wake, it left burning men, animals, and equipment. His own Kagouti flailed not two yards distant, the saddle and harness he had been sitting on only moments earlier now scorching lines into the helpless creature's flesh. His swords were in his hands, and his gaze darted left, then right, the left again in search of the…

 _Dragon._

It had been a dragon.

His eyes found it only a second later, floating not ten yards above the ground. A figure in armor that seemed to blend into the creature's own hide sat astride it, and for one fateful moment, the kings of Black Marsh and Skyrim looked _directly_ at one another. And then the Nordic High King spoke in guttural harsh tones, and the dragon beneath him veered to the right, towards….

 _Towards the siege camp_ , Kelan-Tel realized. But from here, there was nothing he could do but watch as the creature swooped time and time again upon the Argonian siege encampment. All the ballista and catapults that might have harmed the creature were pointed the wrong way, and crowded together in their narrow trenches, the Argonian soldiers had no escape from the fiery death that descended upon them.

"My king?"

The words seemed to come from far away, or through several fathoms of water.

"My KING?"

Kelan-Tel turned slowly to see several of his sons and daughters around him, all eyes turned towards him.

"What are your orders?"

As if in answer, another roaring _boom_ sounded, and Kelan-Tel felt his heart sink as he saw the once-splendid Argonian charge dissolve into a mass of blood and beast.

"Retreat," Kelan-Tel stated numbly. "Retreat towards the river, he repeated. "Full retreat southward. Priority: survival."

The Argonian trumpeters seemed to pause at the order, as if remembered _how_ to sound the unfamiliar call, and then lifted the massive signal horns to their lips to signal the general retreat.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **"…Then should the warlike Llewellyn, like himself,** **Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels,** **Leash'd in like hounds, should famine, sword and fire** **Crouch for employment.** **"**

 **As always, your thoughts/ suggestions/ comments/ constructive criticisms are always welcome in the reviews and my PMs, even if it's just "Good job," or "I liked it." You are, each of you, awesome!**

 **ROCK ON, my friends!**

 **\- Tusken 1602**

* * *

Reviewer Responses:

DarkFireCat5241999 – I'm honestly not a great fan of MMORPG, but the few times I've played ESO at friends' houses, I haven't been mad about it. That's about the extent of my opinion on ESO.

Bloodwolf432 – If you want to see the gods laugh, tell them your plans…

Blaise Welshman – I am always susceptible to reviewers' suggestions; I don't claim to have an angle on all good writing!

Rabastan, GalacticHalfling – I think of Nelkir visiting the _Vodahmin_ as more of a cultural exchange, more than anything else. His father certainly knows he's there, so he hasn't run away, by any means.

griezz – Some large part of me thinks that M'aiq would approve of Tala Niwot.

hopelessromantic34 – Thus far, only muskets for the Blades…

Spartanzerg75 – Very good points, my friend.

tylermech66 – I have tried to use the legionnaires as those supporting blocks, but this battle certainly represents a turning point for warfare in Tamriel. After all, you can only use something for the "first time" once…

Guest – Sybille Stentor is still the vampiric court mage at Solitude.

Leaf Ninja 91, badkidoh, Dumnezeu, jdboss1 – Thanks, my friends! I always appreciate the extra effort to leave a review! Means an awful lot to me!


	12. Chapter 12: The Covenant Strikes

***VODAHMIN ENCAMPMENT*  
SKINGRAD  
CYRODIIL**

 **So… here we are.**

 _Here we are._

The High Mother of the _Vodahmin_ stood on the hill, looking down at the field that would soon decide the fate of Tamriel. If it had not been for the ring on her finger, the entourage gathered around her might have seen the change in her eyes from bright blue to emerald green.

 _How many more of my children must die before the sun sets today?_

 ** _After today, we will be THE power of Tamriel, and no one will dare challenge us. After that, none of them will need die._**

 _Yes, because once we seize power, everyone will be PERFECTLY content to let Tala Niwot sit on the Ruby Throne._

 ** _Then we must ensure that today's example is sufficient to dissuade such fools._**

Tala looked down, squinting at the distant Imperial formation below.

 _What are they doing down there?_

 ** _It's a tactic called the Fist of the Emperor_** **,** Potema answered. ** _Rather than trying to match our battle-line, Medeborn is consolidating his troops in the center for a concentrated push. When the weight of his line breaks through our center, half will hold one flank in place, while the other rolls up our line._**

 _How do you know that?_

 ** _OH, Tala dear_** , chuckled the Wolf-Queen ** _, I fought these exact tactics back in the War of the Red Diamond. My dear brother Cephorus invented this particular strategy to fight my battle-line of draugr._**

 _If they want to strike at our center so badly,_ thought Tala, _then I say we let them do so._

 ** _Exactly, little Tala_** , the Wolf-Queen agreed. **_Time to take a page from… what was his name again? From your world?_**

 _Shaka Zulu._

"You all know your places," the High Queen stated aloud, turning to face each of her commanders. "We have made our plans, and our deployments are sound."

Nods went around the circle.

"The rest is in the hands of the gods," stated Serana.

"The gods?" Tala scoffed. "Our fates lie within our own hands, and no one else's, my love."

More laughter, and the brandishing of weapons.

"Let us be about this day, then, my children."

* * *

 ***VODAHMIN CENTER***

Ivanos gulped as he saw Queen Tala strode to the front line, stabbing her spear into the ground and strapping on her shield. Distinct in their black Daedric armor, she stood with her bodyguards, soldiers who had fought beside her since the beginning, who would die for her; who loved her. Then the queen turned and her voice carried effortlessly through the ranks:

"This is the last army standing between us and the Imperial City, my children!" she called out. "Here, there is no advantage of numbers, nor of training. These are their best soldiers, their most skilled veterans. It shall be their skill against ours; their bravery and ours. So here we stand."

She looked around her, at the faces of all her warriors. And she smiled. And Ivanos, and all the soldiers around him silently vowed to deserve a tenth of that smile. For she was _their_ queen, _their_ Banrion, _their_ High Mother. Then, in only the time it took to strap on her daedric helmet, her smile disappeared and the voice turned to steel and ice, slicing the very air in twain. And she was Tala the Witch-Queen once more.

"Send these bastard sons of bitches back to Oblivion, my brothers!"

A loud cheer arose, spear clashing against shield, a mockery of the foes that stood opposite them, a rising jest, a challenge.

They marched forward, taking up battle lines at the mouth of the long and narrow pass. The time-honored strategy of the Covenant, the shield-wall, would be her guard against the vast ranks of the Imperials. The kite-shaped shields of the Vodahmin, covering them from neck to foot, locked together in an unbroken palisade of steel.

Far away, and yet drawing closer, a low rumbling was heard. The very ground seemed to tremble, and all that could be heard in the silence was the thunder in the distance, the kind that any seasoned warrior can instantly tell is made by no cloud.

The queen took her place in the shield wall. Borkul handed her war-spear to her.

"Imperial Cataphracts, I'll be bound."

"Whoever is commanding over there is a fool, to send cavalry against armored footmen," the queen nodded in reply.

Movarth Piquine snorted in derision.

"The Cataphracts are the sons and heirs of Cyrodiil's nobility. More than likely they _demanded_ the honor of leading the vanguard, and he couldn't tell them 'no.'"

Skoberth Black-Song took his place by his queen's side.

"I hope they don't do something as stupid as send a herald to demand our surrender."

"No fear, bard," the queen replied. "They have come for death and death alone."

"But what they do not know is that it is their own."

Tala nodded, smiling at his reply.

The dark rhythmic pounding ceased. And for a moment, all was still. Then there came a faint note of a horn, followed by a roaring battle-cry. The thunder of galloping hooves resumed.

"They come," the queen said simply.

Borkul hefted his pike, testing its weight and balance in his hand. "PIKES, AT THE READY!" he bellowed, his voice a battle-horn across the lines.

Seasoned warriors gripped well-worn handles of their long lances. Ivanos licked his lips and glanced nervously towards the veterans.

"Easy, lad," soothed Ericc, the Nord smiling at the young boy next to him. "They're coming."

"I'm not scared," the boy said too quickly. He cleared his throat. "There's just…so many."

"Well, Ivanos," replied Ahmed, "If it helps any, just close your eyes. You'll know they're here when you feel your spear jerk."

The soldiers around them chuckled at the old joke, each of them remembering the first time they had heard it.

"You'll be fine, boy," soothed Ssirutak, the giant Argonian gripping her own pike. "Just keep that shield up."

The first ranks of oncoming Imperials could now be seen. The horsemen in front could be seen drawing their infamous crossbows, knocking the bolts on the rings found on the quivers on their saddles. The fire from these crossbows could tear the shield-wall apart before the horsemen were ever in spear-range.

"Movarth!" yelled the queen.

"PART RANKS!" The vampire lord's order rang out across the formation. The shield-bearers separated _ever_ so slightly, a barrage of arrows flying between them. The range of the Dwemer Crossbow was greater than the single-hand versions carried by the horsemen. Ivanos felt the fletching of one of the bolts graze his ear as it passed, and heard Jaren behind him swear slightly as he worked the crank-handle to reload the four-sided weapon.

The front ranks of the enemy crumbled, and horsemen behind were caught up in the confused mass that resulted. The irresistible charge of the Imperials had broken down into a huddled mass, which a Vodahmin archer could not easily miss. Only a pitiful remnant remained organized enough to rally and continue the charge. But their numbers were too few now. Bolts continued to ply into the mass of horsemen that were plunging forward, and the shieldbearers remained steadfast, closing ranks only at the last possible moment as they met the charge.

With a horrible clash of steel on bone, the two lines collided. In vain, the horsemen strove to breach the long lances and shields of the Vodahmin. Every spear thrust emptied a saddle or toppled a horse, and the very numbers that were supposed to overwhelm the defenders now only served to push the foremost ranks to their deaths.

"Hold them! Stand fast!" came the cry of the queen. The front ranks were being sorely pressed from the sheer weight of bodies being pressed against them. The queen glanced behind her.

"Borkul! Now!"

The giant orc's voice echoed even above the din of battle.

"AT READY...WAAAAIT FOOOOR IIIIITTTT…. ADVANCE!"

At the command, the front rank suddenly took a knee. The second rank advanced with their shields above their heads, smashing the off-balance foes from their saddles. They closed ranks in front of the relieved front rank. A fresh rank of soldiers now stood with shields ready and spears extended.

"ADVANCE!"

The action was repeated, throwing horseman and beast alike to the ground. And those that fell rarely survived to rise again.

"ADVANCE!"

It was too much for most of the Imperials. An enemy that they were supposed to simply ride over now was _advancing_ against them. The survivors of the carnage who still had horses turned them and galloped back towards the safety of their own lines. But a Dwemer Crossbow can fire very fast and very far.

"PART RANKS!" rang out the order again. As before, the arrows poured from the Vodahmin lines, emptying saddles left and right. Less than a handful outrode the fletched rain of death that claimed their comrades.

Decurion Morgen pulled his spear out of a quivering body and looked to his right, surveying the status of his _hoplon_. Ahmed had a small gash on his forehead and Jirah was bleeding from her shoulder, but the Breton woman still smiled and nodded back at her _decurion_.

"Is that it?" said Ivanos with a quaky voice, pulling his spear from a fallen foeman. "Did we win?"

"Aye, lad," the orc captain nodded. "We won this round. But they'll be a-coming again. Jirah, fall out of line and get that shoulder seen to."

"I'll be alright, sir," the Breton woman protested. "A quick healing-spell, and I'll be right as…"

"Then _fall out_ and get it done, soldier!" the orc snapped. "Now! The sooner you do, the sooner you can be back!"

Jirah saluted, and then with a glance and a nod at her brother, marched down the light towards the hospital tents in the rear. An unknown figure from the second rank stepped forward to fill the gap in the line.

Suddenly, in the distance, the rhythmic pounding began again. Over the crest of the hill, the first ranks of the infantry could be seen. Their kite-shaped shields matched the Vodahmin army's in shape and size, and the close-ordered ranks of the two armies mirrored one another. Suddenly, there came a sound that reminded Ivanos of wind passing through grain fields.

 _"_ Turtle!" came the shout. The ranks of infantry drew close together, the rear ranks raising their shields to cover the heads of the front ranks. A storm of arrows punched down at the ranks of the Covenant soldiers. The close-knit shields blocked most of the deadly projectiles, but here and there a soldier went down, either screaming and clutching at an embedded shaft, or else sank down without a sound and went still.

"RETURN FIRE!"

The Vodahmin archers raised their own weapons, and an answering storm of shafts went through the air at the enemy ranks, who were now advancing with a steady, rhythmic shout of, "CY-RO-DIIL! CY-RO-DIIL! CY-RO-DIIL!"

Ivanos and his comrades on either side raised their own war-cry in answer, unbidden and almost instinctively:

"TA-LA! TA-LA! TA-LA!"

And then came the sudden barrage of the Imperial _pila_ , and then the two armies clashed with a sickening screech of blades against armor.

* * *

 ***VODAHMIN LEFT FLANK***

"My lord," Venarus Vulpin reported, saluting, "The Imperials are pushing back our center."

Lord Vighar nodded solemnly, looking at the ranks of the red-armored soldiers quick-marching along the forest road, moving from order of march into line of battle, facing the Imperials' flank.

"Kornalus Frey," he said at last, "release your beasts. Madam Rendas, you may do the same. Time to repay the Queen for granting the both of you asylum within the Covenant."

The Altmer and Dunmer mages bowed low, murmuring reassurances as they moved forward towards the front ranks. There, several nervous Covenant soldiers held boxes that hummed with a magical energy, as well as _shivered_ and shook, with loud screeches coming from within.

The two mages stood, and then made a simultaneous motion. The boxes were placed on the ground, and then their bearers kicked them over, before turning and running back towards the safety of their own ranks.

From within the crates, multiple breeds of Frostbite Spiders, magically infused with fire, electricity, and frost energy, poured forward from the woods, and made their way down the hill towards the crowded ranks of the legionnaires. From below, someone in the ranks screamed a warning, and several of the archers whirled to direct their fire at the unholy tide of monsters streaming towards them. But the pitiful number of shafts sent in their direction did nothing to stem their onslaught, and screams began to rise as the creatures detonated in close proximity to the Legion ranks.

Vighar grinned and nodded his approval at the two mages who stood beside him, beaming their own excitement at the results of their experiments. He raised his arm and made a chopping motion.

"Flanks, advance!"

The vampiric regiments marched forward in their shield wall, with pikes extended and fangs bared.

* * *

 ***VODAHMIN RIGHT FLANK***

"I still say it is dangerous, taking most of our mages away from the main battle-line," Icando Damn-Rune stated sullenly, watching the hard-pressed center of the Vodahmin battle-line yield to the more heavily-packed Imperial line, slowly but surely.

"Do you think I feel any different, Icando? Serana snapped, more vehemence in the question than she had intended. "That is my _lover_ down there, and she's the _bait_ meant to lure the Imperials in."

"You worry too much, vampiress," Miraak sighed, "She has not shirked from her duty. Your ability to do yours will not be aided by worrying for her."

The Akaviri warrior waved his staff, and a black portal opened, from which the figure of a Lurker, drawn from the halls of Apocrypha itself, stepped onto the battlefield.

"VAHZEN," rumbled the figure of the great grey figure of Durnehviir hovering above them. "Let us do our part for the _Qahnaarin. DIIL-QOTH-ZAAM!"_

A violet swirl of magical power appeared, and from the depths of the Soul Cairn itself, Mistmen and Wrathmen arose from his shout.

Serana clicked the switch, extending the Rose of Sanguine in her hand to its full length, and then channeled her power through the staff. With a flurry of Daedric power, Teyrn'garwch materialized next to her, the Dremora warrior drawing the greatsword on his back.

The ranks of mages, warlocks, necromancers, and magic users of every stripe all made their incantations, spells, and words of command. In front of their ranks, Gargoyles, and Atronachs of every variety spawned from the Conjuration portals that littered the wood-covered hill. Spectral wolves, and ghosts of long-dead warriors appeared as well, baring ghostly fangs and drawing shrouded weapons. Behind them, the undead ranks of _draugr_ and reanimated corpses from the previous week's battles and skirmishes shuffled forward, their long moans rising in volume as they did so.

Serana raised the Rose above her head, and then brought it down, pointing at the Imperial left flank.

"FORWARD!"

* * *

 ***SOME TIME LATER***

"Sir, we must fall back! The day is lost!"

General Gaius Maro shook the blood from his eyes, allowing himself to be pulled away from the fighting by his entourage and bodyguards.

"We must cut through to make our escape!"

The Penitus Oculatus officer cast an eye at the carnage unfolding all around them: From the rear, Vodahmin cavalry and mammoths were firing and then retreating, not allowing themselves to come into direct conflict with the heavily-armored Legion ranks, but not allowing them to escape in that direction either. On the right flank, the distinctive red armor of the vampire regiments could be seen, charging downhill into the now-disorganized and broken ranks. On the left flank, it was even worse: demons and undead of every variety collided with the Legion ranks, scattering them left and right like chaff before a heavy wind. The inevitable truth sank in like a icy chill:

"There is no escape," he said in a low voice. In a few moments, this great army would be surrounded, and their heavily-packed ranks that were supposed to overwhelm the _Vodahmin_ would now only serve to encumber most of the legionnaires, preventing them from lending aid to their comrades.

In short, they were trapped like sardines in a barrel.

"WITH ME!" He called out suddenly, shaking the blood from his sword and picking up a discarded shield. "We strike for the Witch-Queen's standard! If she goes down, the entire Covenant will fall apart! We'll rout them all!"

 _But probably, not,_ his mind chided him. _More than likely we'll all die here. But if we can bring down Tala Niwot, then maybe this clusterfuck I've made of my first command will mean_ _ **something**_ _. She has no heir: More than likely the Covenant leaders will quarrel over the succession, and then their invasion will fall apart…_

"FOR THE EMPEROR!"

The small party around him now had their swords drawn as well, and stragglers and survivors were joining them every second, lending weight and impetus to their last, desperate charge. Gaius Maro slashed aside a Redguard soldier, and then physically flipped a Khajiit over him with his shield. And then suddenly the soldiers in front of him were wearing black Daedric armor, rather than the standard golden shade of the rank-and-file Covenant troops.

 _Her bodyguard,_ some part of Maro's mind told him exultantly. _We've got her, we've got…"_

An Imperial soldier in front of him _disappeared_ beneath the blow of the largest, most monstrous mace Gaius had ever seen, wielded by a deceptively slim figure that…

 _It's her._

 _Tala Niwot._

 _The Witch Queen, herself, herself._

"FOR THE EMPEROR!" he heard his own voice shout, his feet automatically moving to intercept her, to cut her down, to save his Empire, his father, and…

Tala Niwot took a step back, reaching over her left shoulder to bring a long staff to bear. Gaius was only aware of a snarling, savage face carved on the top (o _r was it a face of mocking laughter?_ ) before he instinctively brought his shield up to block the bolt of magical energy coming at him.

Even as he did it, he realized his error, as the red bolt struck the now-exposed knee, just beneath his upraised shield. There was a disorienting _wave_ of nausea as a red mist engulfed him, but when it cleared, he felt unharmed. He raised his wing to strike at the figure of the Witch-Queen and…

 _Wait… wing?_

The startled yell that escaped him came out as a strangled, " _Bok-CAWK!"_

 _I'm a…. CHICKEN?!_

Then that terrible mace descended again… and all was blackness.

* * *

 _When you hear the wolf howl, show no fear!_

 _Darkness is coming! Shed no tear!_

 _When you see the night draw nearer and nearer,_

 _The Wolf Queen is coming! Potema is here!_

 _Against the enemy, we shall be cruel!_

 _Victory is coming, the sword is our tool!_

 _Those who resist us are the greatest of fools,_

 _The Witch-Queen is with us, Tala shall rule!_

\- Excerpt from _Victory of the Covenant,_ by Skoberth Black-Song

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Well, everyone, thanks for keeping up with this story, despite the irregular updates. Hopefully, this battle will make up for the delay. Here we see yet again the unique tactical combination that Tala Niwot of Earth and Potema Septim of Tamriel make together, even if no one is aware of it… yet.**

 **And we got some Wabbajack Action! Woot!**

 **Full credit to** **griezz** **, for sharing the first verse of the poem with me; I simply tacked on a second one. As always, your thoughts/ comments/ reviews/ constructive criticisms are always welcome!**

 **ROCK ON, my friends!**

 **Tusken1602**

* * *

Reviewer Responses:

Bloodwolf432, Dumnezeu – It's certainly a turning point in the history of warfare on Nirn.

embrewing – Well said, my friend.

derpysauce – It was not a fluke that Lewis helped win the Stormcloak Rebellion. He is a skilled general and tactician in his own right. Gunpowder is just the latest addition to his arsenal.

jdboss1, Spartanzerg75 – Excellent points. We are in a world of magic, demons, gods, and dragons, after all. Guns are, if you think about it, only a small equalizer for the non-magical and very-much-mortal. And they're not a "beats-all" weapon, either: a good general can devise tactics to mitigate the advantage rifles bring.

tylermech66, griezz1, Wiwerse– Tala is probably going to flip when she hears word of Lewis' new toys, yes.

DarkFireCAt5241999 – I've done my best to keep up with the lore in the game, but I'm just not a fan of MMORPGs.

JimmyHall24 – The College has enchanted these particular rifles to be _very_ accurate (see chapter 1).

GalacticHalfling – That is usually how wars go: there is VERY rarely a "Good Guy" and "Bad Guy." Most of the time it's two people groups slugging it out for dominance, as Humanity has done since we started carrying rocks…

Rabastan, Guest, idarkfang79 – The High Queen is now a more subtle mixture of the two. I would almost say they are two sides of the same coin, rather than two passengers in a single coach, by now.

Guest, Serpent – You'll have to wait and see, my friend. ;)

Luadog, badkidoh, – Thanks! I really appreciate the support!

EE-RAH!


	13. Chapter 13: A New Ebonheart Pact

***STORMHOLD*  
SHADOWFEN  
BLACK MARSH **

"Gods above, have mercy."

Jarl Kraldar of Winterhold stepped almost gingerly through the remains of the battlefield. He and Frea Wise-Voice of the Skaal were walking over the path carved into the marsh. In the bogs surrounding them, bodies lay with unseeing eyes staring up at the heavens which had deserted them.

"All-Father, take these souls," the shaman of the Skaal stated solemnly. The glint of her Stalhrim armor contrasted strongly with the mud and marsh around her, but she knelt in the muck without a second thought, closing the eyes of a nearby Naga warrior, folding the puff-adder-like creature's arms over his chest.

"Shall I tell out burial parties, my lord?" Kraldar asked, but Llewellyn Dragonborn shook his head.

"No, my friend. The Argonians believe that the bodies of the dead are food for the _Hist_. We shall honor their wishes, and their beliefs."

He turned away, looking over the field with a mournful look on his face, and then strode back towards the figure of Odahviing overlooking the field, much of its carnage his own handiwork.

"He has done what no army has done since the days of Tiber Septim," Kraldar said gravely to those within hearing distance. "He's beaten the lizards on their own ground."

"If I hadn't seen it for myself, I wouldn't be believing it," General Veloth stated, the Dunmer's bonemold armor rattling as he shook his head. "Tribunal bear witness, if it hadn't been for those… what are they called again?"

"'Guns,'" Frea answered.

"What kind of word is that?"

The leader of the Skaal shrugged.

"It is what the Arch-Mage calls them."

The "guns" had rendered the obscuring cover the high reeds completely moot. Where an archer had to see a target in order to hit it, the ordered ranks of the Blades could fire blindly into the marchlands with devastating effect. Where the thick, almost mat-like reeds could stop an arrow as sure as armored plate, the… _"bullets"_ cut through them like a scythe. The multiple volleys had literally cleared a field in front of the Nordic ranks as cleanly as a harvesting team, except that this was a bloody harvest of corpses, rather than life-giving wheat.

Another group of riders, these astride local _Kagouti_ mounts, rode up to where the High King stood. In the center, bearing a green branch of truce, sat an Argonian, a noble by his scales and armor.

"What is your message?" Llewellyn stated, placing a hand on Odahviing, as if restraining a feral beast. The gesture was as meaningless as it was useful. Odahviing tended to have an intimidating effect on everyone who beheld him, so therefore anyone who could _control_ such a beast was certainly someone to take seriously.

"Your Majesty," the Argonian hissed, his accent strong on his forked tongue, "my king invites you to parley."

Llewellyn nodded slowly, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

"Where and when?"

"His _gere_ is pitched a single _ell_ eastward," the Argonian noble answered, pointing with the branch. "He stands ready to converse at your earliest convenience, if that should please you, lord."

His accent made the last word come out as _larrrr_ , but the tone was even and perhaps _slightly_ deferential.

"Very well," Llewellyn answered, "Inform him that we shall be joining him as quickly as our mounts may bear us."

The messenger nodded and rode off again, this time alone. The Imperial dismounted with a grunt, wincing as he massaged his thighs.

"I'm getting old, Heron," Tullius groaned. "War is a madness for the young."

"You are not yet so long in the tooth," Sarai Gellarus chuckled, the Arch-Mage stepping closer to cast a Healing Spell on the Imperator.

"Longer than I care to remember," he replied with a sigh and nod of gratitude. "Do you think this is some sort of ruse, Majesty?"

"No limit was placed on the number of escorts," Llewellyn shrugged. "I mean to take full advantage of that oversight."

Indeed, the party that rode up to the lone tent pitched in the middle of a rare open field numbered almost a hundred warriors, made up of Dunmer, Nords, Imperials, and Skaal. By contrast, barely twenty Argonian royal guards surrounded the tent, but they saluted gravely as the king's housecarl made her way into the tent first.

Lydia had barely disappeared into the tent when Lewis heard a startled gasp. His hand reached for his sword-hilt as he stepped into the tent. As his eye adjusted, he saw that while the tent was spacious and open, only a single figure stood within it. Rather than the familiar face of Kelan-Tel, a stranger's face faced him across the tent.

"Kailev?"

Lydia of Whiterun looked positively incredulous, and her hand rose to her mouth in surprise. The Argonian grinned, showing several rows of pointed teeth.

"It's good to see you again, Lydia."

Rather than the hissing accent of most residents of Black Marsh, or even the deep rumbling of Kelan-Tel, the stranger's accent bore no trace of accent whatsoever. Its tones could have been equally at home in the Bard's College of Solitude or the Imperial Palace of Cyrodiil.

"You know one another?" he asked finally, breaking the silence. Lydia blushed heartily, and then turned back to her ruler.

"Forgive me, your majesty," she said hastily. "May I present Kailev-Tel, Prince of the Royal House of Black Marsh. We were both merely children during the time he was fostered in Whiterun."

Llewellyn's eyebrows raised in surprise, and Kailev bowed slightly.

"I hope that Jarl Balgruuf is still in good health," he grinned, "I learned much from my time with him."

"As have I," Llewellyn Dragonborn nodded. "And yes, he is still in excellent health, when last I saw him."

He looked around the tent again.

"Forgive me," he said slowly, "But your father is not yet here?"

"It would be more accurate to say that my father is no _longer_ here," Kailev-Tel replied, and there was a sadness behind the forced joviality in his voice.

"He has _left_?" Tullius asked incredulously.

"He has…given himself to the Hist, in payment for his failure to protect our people," Kailev-Tel answered simply, taking the central seat reserved for the Argonian King. "After you crossed our borders, the An-Xileel demanded that he give you battle, rather than allow our _sacred_ soil," the derision was obvious, even on his reptilian features, "to be defiled by foreigners."

He lifted a hand to gesture at the surrounding marsh.

"I don't have to tell you how well that went."

Llewellyn bowed his head.

"I am sorry that he has… rejoined the Hist," he stated slowly, sinking into a chair opposite the new King of Black Marsh. "It was my hope that we might be able to come to terms."

"That was never going to happen without defeating him first, Llewellyn Dragonborn," Kailev-Tel shrugged. "And a defeated Argonian cannot be King of Black Marsh."

"And you have taken this opportunity to become king?" the Arch-mage asked, taking her own seat.

"I have been _chosen_ by the Hist as the appropriate leader to _serve_ the People," Kailev replied sharply. " _Believe_ me, Arch Mage, you have _no idea_ how much I would rather the ever-wise _Hist's_ choice had fallen on another of my brood-brothers or sisters."

With a visible effort, the new King of Black Marsh collected himself, and then returned his gaze to the High King of Skyrim.

"But here I am, and here we are. The majority of the faction that was clamoring for war lie face-down in the marshes yonder," he gestured, "and those that live still have had their white-hot desire for war cooled by the bitter waters of defeat."

A long pause fell on the party.

"My father attempted three times to give you pitched battle, and three times came away broken and defeated," Kailev stated evenly. "Rest assured, I will not make the same mistake. You will not get another chance to face in open combat again. Rather, you will receive volley after volley of arrows from behind every tree and reed-bed as you advance south. Traps will be beneath every fallen log, and poison will be in every well that we leave behind us. Darts will face you during the day, and knives in the night, and you will lose your entire army before you conquer Argonia.

Unless you run out of room to retreat, first," Llewellyn stated evenly.

A ghost of a smile crept across the young Argonian's face.

"Based upon the fact that my father _burned_ everything between here and Kragenmoor during the retreat, that means that unless you want to bring supplies all the way from Solstheim, things are going to get very thin indeed on the ground for you."

"What do you propose instead?" Tullius snapped, an edge of sarcasm in his tone. "Perhaps that we turn around and go home, after winning victory after victory?"

"I have been chosen by the _Hist_ ," Kailev-Tel continued, refusing to rise to the challenge. "That means that they must have given their blessing on the advice I offered my father during his time as king. And so I must act upon my own advice."

He gazed levelly at the High King of Skyrim.

"So I have come to ask Llewellyn Dragonborn what terms he would offer to the People, rather than lose any more of the soldiers that you will need to defeat Tiberius Medeborn in Cyrodiil, and save me the lives of the People who would gladly give their lives to stop you, rather than admit defeat."

There was a long pause, and the eyes of all present turned back to the High King of Skyrim, who lifted a hand to rub his bearded chin.

"The People have fought valiantly," he stated after a moment. "And have proven their ancestors who drove back the Daedra themselves proud. No warrior who has lifted blade against us thus far in the campaign need be ashamed of their efforts."

Kailev acknowledged the praise with a slight bow of his head.

I am not a bloodthirsty monster, to delight in bloodshed and war. I would not slay a single Argonian or Naga more than I have to, in order to secure safety for the Dunmer of Morrowind. But far more secure than any peace treaty, leaden with those bitter waters you spoke of, and terms of territory surrendered, or reparations repaid, is a declaration of friendship, and alliance."

With the exception of Sarai Gellarus, who merely smiled in knowing approval, everyone present started in surprise, and even Kailev-Tel blinked at the words.

"Black Marsh, Morrowind, and Skyrim were united in friendship, and shed blood together to defeat a common enemy, only a few short years ago," Llewellyn continued. "It has been through the bone-headed stupidity of an idiotic child that had driven us apart again, and cost the lives of so many, Dunmer, Nord, and Argonian alike."

"You would take the word of your enemies?" Kailev-Tel asked incredulously.

"Swear by the _Hist_ that the boundaries set at the Field of Gold will be honored and send your warriors to aid us in defeating the legions of the false Emperor," Llew nodded in answer. "After all, Kailev-Tel, no defeated ruler can be King of Black Marsh."

Kailev-Tel nodded in understanding. His personally leading the troops under the Dragonborn would be placing his own life on the line, and dependent on the victory of the Nordic High King.

"What interesting times we live in, it seems," the Argonian king smiled. "And this is acceptable to Councilor Morvayn?"

"We trust in the wisdom of the High King," Lleril nodded. "What with the Dominion regaining much of its former strength in the south, and the rise of a new Covenant in the west, it seems only wise to the Great House of Morrowind that a new… um.. _Pact,_ shall we say, be made."

"A Second Ebonheart Pact," chuckled Kailev-Tel. "If I remember my history lessons correctly, the first one ended rather badly."

"If we learn _from_ the mistakes of our forefathers," Arch-Mage Gellarus stated slowly, "then we need not _emulate_ them."

"Here, here," Jarl Kraldar nodded, a gesture repeated by Imperator Tullius.

Kailev-Tel contemplated for another long moment, and then extended his hand to Llewellyn Dragonborn.

"Then the People of the _Hist_ will stand with you, Dragonborn," he stated slowly.

 ***SOME TIME LATER***

Several figures stood in a half-circle, with the figure of the Arch-Mage of Winterhold standing before them. Sarai Gellarus lifted her staff high above her in the sign of Invocation.

"We call upon the Divines to bear Witness," she called out in a loud voice. "Let them turn their gaze upon this place, and bear witness for the Ages to Come."

She then lowered her staff and her gaze at the first figure.

"Who are you, stranger, and why have you come thus to this Circle?"

The tall man in Dragonbone armor as black as night drew himself up to his full and impressive height.

"I am Llewellyn Dragonborn, High King of Skyrim," he stated proudly, but without hubris. "I stand before my ancestors at this holy place to seal our Pact for the greater good."

The staff turned to the second figure.

"And you, Dunmer?"

Lleril Morvayn bowed at the waist in a ceremonial bow of the Great Houses of Morrowind.

"I, Lleril Morvayn, represent the Dunmer and the Tribunal. I stand in this circle to affirm our place in the Ebonheart Pact."

Kailev-Tel straightened in his turn and placed a hand upon his chest in solemn contemplation.

"My name is Kailev-Tel," he said in a grave and solemn tone, "And I stand on this mound to proclaim the allegiance, word and bond of the swamps of Black Marsh. In the name of my people, I add my voice to form the Ebonheart Pact."

"What token do you bring, as proof of your word?"

Llewellyn lifted the helmet from his own head, placing in on the stone before him.

"The Nords offer the Jagged Crown of Borgas. The symbol of power and wisdom provides the Pact with the strength and authority of our Nord ancestors."

The staff pointed to Lleril Morvayn, who reached behind him and held up a gleaming object.

"The Dunmer offer the Star of Azura, an artifact of ancient magic. This provides the Pact with our skills and the blessing of the Tribunal."

Sarai Gellarus hid her slight smile. She had been with Lewis when he had reclaimed and purified that particular artifact. It had been given as a gift to Councilor Morvayn during the Dragonborn's first visit to Solstheim to defeat Miraak.

Kailev-Tel lifted a black object between his hands, holding it high before placing it next to the two previous objects.

"The Argonians offer the Mnemic Egg, sacred symbol of birth and life, thus granting our wisdom, and the memories of the Hist, to the Pact."

"With these offerings," Sarai stated, her heart pounding in her chest, "The Pact is sealed. Let our nations become one!"

"My friends," Imperator Servetus Tullius stepped forward, holding the Imperial Crown high and placing it with the others. "I am no ruler, and thus cannot speak for the people of Cyrodiil to wish their joining this pact. But I shall speak for those represented here to call for a single leader to hold this Pact together."

He turned and went to one knee before Llewellyn.

"We believe High King Llewellyn Dragonborn is the one to lead us."

"So say we," nodded the Dunmer.

"So say we all," nodded the Argonian.

Llewellyn Dragonborn looked down, and then replaced the Jagged Crown on his head.

"I accept the role of High King of the Ebonheart Pact," he stated slowly, and then drew a deep breath.

"MUL QAH-DIIV!"

A murmur of shocked awe ran through the assembled crowd as the flaming Dragon Aspect surrounded the form of their High King.

"Let our enemies tremble at our assembled might!"

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Hello everyone! Moving across the country, looking for a new job, and being an involved father of a two-year-old has drawn away most of my time, and unfortunately, my updates to this story has suffered. But I'm hoping to still continue this story. My thanks to the readers who have PM'd me to inquire after my health. :D**

 **Llewellyn's victories have lead to the creation of a** _third_ **faction in this conflict (well,** _ **fourth**_ if you count Medeborn's Empire) **and with PoTala marching across Cyrodiil and the Aldmeri Dominion retaking much of their former territory, things are looking to get VERY interesting in Tamriel.**

 **As always, your thoughts/comments/suggestions/constructive criticisms are always welcome in the reviews below, or in my PMs, even if it's just "Good job, I liked it."**

 **ROCK ON, my friends!**

 **-Tusken1602**

* * *

Reivewer Responses:

Bloodwolf432, Wiverse, NotRevan, ShadowSword - I'm glad you enjoyed the Wabbajack! We hadn't really got into its full (and bloody horrifying) real-world applications of such a weapon, and I thought that this would be a perfect opportunity.

Cyan Sung-Sun, GalacticHalfling, Guest, Serpent, tylermech66, Dmgaria, Chris4th - Yeah, Llewellyn Dragonborn seems to be caught up in his "destiny" to rule the Empire. But then again... so does Potema... but i'm sure everything will work out OK. *SARCASM

JimmyHall24 - The Wolf Queen Yeeteth, and the Wolf-Queen Yoinketh away. :P

Spartanzerg75 - That's a keen observation. It almost begs the question, "If the Imperial Mages are not here, then where are they?" ;)

Rabastan - Daedra worship work in a variety of different ways: some feed directly off suffering (such as Peryrite and plagues) while others like Malacath draw power from a life following a code of honor. Others require direct sacrifices of souls offered in their name.

Guest - We may or may not be seeing the Vampire Lord of Skingrad (Or at least his descendants).

badkidoh, Zarroc789 - Thanks so much! Appreciate the review!

EE-RAH!


	14. Chapter 14: Moonlight Parleys

***SKINGRAD *  
WEST WEALD  
CYRODIIL**

"We should be in the Imperial City by now."

"The people of Skingrad have put up a valiant defense, it must be said, your Majesty," Serana shrugged, waving a hand towards the blackened fields in front of the charred and broken stones that remained of the once-impressive wall of the city of Skingrad.

Tala sat back in her chair, an expression that could only be called a pout on her face.

"We should have marched _immediately_ on the Imperial city after the battle," she hissed. "Not wasted three weeks taking Kvatch and Chorrol."

"If we were going to have the troops necessary to storm the capital, we _needed_ to end both of those sieges," Anorak Septim countered. "That, and we couldn't leave such threats in our rear."

"The fact remains that we've taken _two_ cities in the past three weeks," Burgurk growled. The Orsimer king folded his arms across his chest and glowered at the Altmer High Seeker. "And in all that time, you knife-ears couldn't take _one_ measly town?"

"We had not anticipated facing _vampiric_ soldiers while storming one of the strongest Imperial cities in Cyrodiil," Aldnaro retorted, his pointed nose angling upward in the expression of a _superior_ being not deigning to lower himself to an inferior's level.

"Vampires?" Serana asked, bolting upright, "Are you sure?"

The High Seeker of the Aldmeri Dominion her a look that told her all she needed to know, and she held up a hand in silent apology.

"Let us not forget, my friends, that this city also has its own Fighters' and Mages' Guild," Icando offered now, by way of conciliation. "I think we can count ourselves extraordinarily well-served that the High Seeker and the Aldmeri have keep these forces bottled up here, rather than leaving them free to wreak havoc upon our communications and supply lines."

Aldnaro bowed his head only slightly at the Dunmer, which for the Altmer was a gesture of great magnanimity. With almost every figure surrounding the massive table sporting the magical masks, he felt almost out of place at a masquerade ball, except that Serana, Tala, and Lady Valerica were also bare-faced.

"It matters not," shrugged King Telstar of Jehanna, his voice oddly… _amplified_ beneath the mask of Rahgot. "The Dominion have spent the last three weeks smashing great sections of the walls into useless rubble, and now with our combined forces, an _army_ of vampires could only hope to slow us down."

 **He's come a long way from the gangly, awkward youth seated on a throne too big for him,** giggled Potema from the safety and seclusion of Tala's mind. **There's a wild bloodlust behind those eyes now, and an ambition to match it.**

 _The possession runes we etched onto his mask might have something to do with it._

 **Hmm… perhaps**.

"Order a parley outside the main city gate," Tala said aloud. "If you can recognize the tactical situation, Lord Telstar, the defenders of the city must also have some grasp of it as well, if not a better appreciation of their particular predicament."

Lord Borkul the Beast bowed his head, the twin tusks on the mask of Konahrik gleaming in the twilight.

"It will be done, my queen."

A few hours later, Tala sat perched on a small, travel-sized copy of her Obsidian Throne back on Markarth, watching the party of defenders dismount and stride towards her. The first thing Tala had noticed about the small party that had marched to meet them had been that that the soldiers in the escort wore the special armor and arms of House Hassildor, rather than those of the Imperial Legion.

The second had been that, beneath the ridge of their helmets, each of those soldiers' eyes had _glowed_ a crimson scarlet that matched her Royal Consort's eyes exactly.

"My lord Hassildor," she said in greeting, as the Count of Skingrad bowed at the waist before her. Commendably, if the boy (for that was very much what he appeared to be) was intimidated by the sight of a queen seated on a black throne surrounded by mask-wearing lesser kings and rulers, he did not show it.

"Your Majesty," Count Trajan Hassildor replied, and his voice was calm and free from the nervousness that oozed from every molecule of his posture and aura.

"How yet resolves the ruler of the town?" Tala asked, and despite her resolve to be serious, a thin grin spread across her features.

 _I remember memorizing this speech in fifth grade... Thank you, Shakespeare._

"This is the last parley we will admit," she continued, and her voice was cold as ice and as thin as a razor. "Therefore, we implore you, lord to our best mercy give yourselves. Or, to men proud of destruction defy us to our worst. For, as I am Queen and High-Mother, a name that in my thoughts becomes me best, if I begin the assault once again, I will not leave the half-achieved Skingrad 'til in her ashes she lie buried."

Young Trajan Hassildor met her gaze unflinchingly, and his hands clenching at his sides were the only response he made to the threat.

 ** _Time to… up the ante, I believe is the expression from your world?_**

"And on that day," Potema/Tala hissed, her hands now gripping the arms of the chair, "The gates of mercy shall be all shut up. And on that day, my soldiers, rough and hard of heart, in liberty of bloody hand shall range with conscience wide as hell, mowing like grass your fresh-fair virgins and your flowering infants. What is it then to me, if all the Horrors of Oblivion, arrayed in flames like to the prince of fiends, do, with his smirched complexion, all fell feats linked to waste and desolation?  
What isn't to me, when you yourselves are cause, if your citizens fall the hands of lycanthropes and beast-men? What rein can hold vampiric bloodlust in check when down the hill he holds his fierce charge?

Therefore, count, we bid you take pity upon your city of Skingrad, and of your people, whiles yet my soldiers are in my command, whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace overblows the filthy and contagious clouds of heady murder, spoil and destruction.

If not, why, in a moment look to see the blind and bloody soldier with foul hand defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters; your fathers taken by the silver beards, and their most reverend heads dashed to the walls, your naked infants spitted upon pikes, whiles mad mothers with their howls confused, do break the clouds in their wails and cries for mercy.

What say you? Will you yield, and this avoid? Or, guilty in defense, be thus destroyed?"

The count's face had grown grey and then pale, and his hand moved to grip the hilt of the sword on his hip. Tala felt more than saw her bodyguards, clad head to toe in ebony-black Daedric armor, bristle _just slightly_. The count began to speak, swallowed hard, and then began again:

"Majesty," he stated, and Tala was now genuinely impressed at how calm his voice continued to be, "I have defended my city against those who would destroy and despoil us. I have, as my father and forefathers before me, upheld our oath to the Emperor and the Ruby Throne, to hold this city in his name."

Tala felt a scowl coming on, but then saw the brave, even _handsome,_ features of the count fall, as if someone had stuck a pin into whatever reserve of bravery and fortitude had had been drawing upon.

"However," the shoulders of the brave Count of Hassildor slumped, and a bitter edge crept into the even, steady tones, "the Emperor, of whom we have entreated, has _deigned_ to inform us that his powers are yet not ready to raise so great a siege."

Beneath the spike of joy and victory Potema was reveling in, Tala was keenly away of feeling a stab of pity for the brave young man before her as he slowly took a knee, abandoned by his sovereign whom he had served so well.

"Therefore, great queen," he said, and the sword on his hips was now in his hands, and if the voice trembled just slightly, the hands offering the blade towards her chair did not, "We yield our town and lives to your mercy. Enter our gates; dispose of us and ours…for we no longer are defensible."

 ***SOME TIME LATER***

The banquet hall of Castle Skingrad had been cleaned up very nicely, Tala saw with approval. The scorch marks on the walls made by the Dominion's siege works had been almost scrubbed clean, or at least covered with great tapestries brought back out of storage. If one took great care, one might detect the faint smells of the hospital this _had_ been only a few short hours ago, but those smells were rapidly being banished in favor of the roast venison, mulled wine, and steamed vegetables that were now pouring out of the kitchens. The same kitchens had, until a few hours ago, been carving up rats and boiling shoe leather for soup, depleted by the horde of refugees the _Vodahmin_ and the Dominion had driven before them, even before a three-week siege had rendered their larders bare.

Now, the besiegers sat side-by-side with those who had so bravely and so effectively defended this city against them, and Tala felt Potema's almost begrudging amusement of the slight confusion still on the former defenders' expressions. Rather than the burning, pillaging, and massacre they had been half-expecting, the Covenant and Dominion had moved in, not with plundering hordes, but with overloaded food wagons, and troops of healers and mages, rather than rampaging beast-men, filled the castle. The wounded that had lain here only a few hours ago were now being cared for in the field hospitals set up by the Covenant around the city, and the starving inhabitants were being fed, healed, and clothed from the Covenant army's own siege train. The Imperial banners had of course been replaced with the snarling wolf-head of the Covenant's standard, but other than that, the city was reeling in surprise with the magnanimity shown by the infamous and feared "Witch-Queen," now being referred to more and more by the same city as "High-Mother."

"It's true, sir," Tala heard Count Trajan confirm, bringing her mind back to the present scene, as he held a goblet of wine, "My great-great… something like twelve generations-ago-grandfather was Janus Hassildor, the first vampire Count of Skingrad. Almost fifty years before aiding in resisting the Oblivion Crisis, Count Janus and his wife Rona fell victim to vampires. Both survived but were infected with _Porphyric Hemophilia_ and became vampires themselves. While the count came to accept his new life, the countess saw her vampiric existence as only a curse and refused to drink the blood needed to keep her healthy; she soon fell into a coma caused by despair and malnutrition. In his quest to find the cure to her condition, Janus had turned several of his closes servants, in order to more readily control them and aid him in caring for his comatose wife."

"How horrible," Icando offered sympathetically. "I can only imagine the suffering that poor woman must have endured."

The count nodded graciously before continuing, "He and his wife eventually discovered the cure for their vampirism, but by that time, Janus had turned several others, who were quite content to remain denizens of the night. And thus, the Hassildor Coven was established, sworn to protect, serve, and defend the House of Hassildor and the people of Skingrad."

He gestured to both of the Hassildor guards standing behind his chair, who obligingly opened their mouths to show their pointed fangs, even if their scarlet eyes had not betrayed them as children of Molag Bal immediately.

"That of course," shrugged the count, "has been a very closely-guarded secret of the House of Hassildor… until now, at least. The Covenant is much more… _understanding_ of its citizens of that particular persuasion, we might say."

"We might say indeed," nodded Serana, showing a fanged smile of her own. "But if I may ask: how do you arrange to _feed_ that many vampires, without raising alarms with the Mages Guild or the priesthood? As you say, _vampirism_ has been next to outlawed in the Empire, and save for in the Covenant's territory, vampires are killed almost on sight across Tamriel."

"A county the size of Skingrad has more than its share of thieves, bandits, murderers, and rapists, Lady Serana," nodded the young count. "And the city guard has not employed a headsman in more than four centuries."

The group at the high table smiled and nodded in understanding and amusement, before Tala felt a hand alight on her shoulder, and a whisper spoken in her ear.

"High Mother," Nelkir Balgruufson said in a low voice. "Lord Nazir requests your presence in the ante-chamber. He says something of grave importance has arisen."

"I am sorry for disturbing your celebration, my queen," the leader of the Dark Brotherhood stated with an apologetic bow as the High Mother, followed by Serana and Icando entered the small room. The other two occupants Tala recognized as Miraak and…

"Babette!" she cried with unfeigned delight, striding forward to actually embrace the diminutive vampiress, "I'm so happy to see you returned safely to us!"

"As are we all," Nazir smiled beside her, and the child-only-in-appearance smiled warmly back.

"It wasn't easy, let me tell you," Babette stated as she resumed her place on a chair by the fire. Icando might have made a slight noise of disapproval at the flouting of royal protocol, but Tala only waved a dismissive hand to chop off any protests he might have voiced.

"When did you get back?" she inquired, "and what news was so important to _bring_ you back from the Imperial City?"

"Just now," Babette answered, even as she tore off a piece of bread from the small plate someone had brought for her. "And the news is from Black Marsh: Llewellyn Dragonborn has been declared High King, not only of Skyrim but also of the Second Ebonheart Pact.

"Of course the idiot would do something as unoriginal as copy _me_ in resurrecting an ancient alliance," Tala sighed. "so… Kelan-Tel decided to make the best of a bad job and switch sides _again?_ "

"Apparently he's dead," Babette corrected her as she took a sip of the wine. "Kailev-Tel is apparently the name of one of his countless brood that they, oh wait, I'm sorry, that _the Hist_ chose to replace him. He apparently had the _great revelation_ that the People's future lay in joining forces with the oh-so-great-and-mighty Dragonborn."

Her tone was laced with almost as much sarcasm as it held hatred for the man who had almost single handedly slaughtered her "Family" in their Sanctuary. Miraak also bristled at the title, the _First_ Dragonborn still feeling the emotional scars of his ignominious defeat.

"Anyways," Babette continued after taking a moment to collect herself, "The Pact's army was moving on Bravil, as of a week ago. The messenger who brought in the news also said in the same dispatch that General Rikke and Jarl Balgruuf moved down from the north to lay siege to Bruma."

"With the Imperial army still inside the city?" Serana asked.

"Emperor Tiberius Medeborn, in his _infinite_ wisdom," Babette rolled her eyes dramatically, "has fallen back to the Imperial City. By all accounts, the little shit's stripped the garrisons of every city of every soldier he could get his grubby little hands on."

"He's bracing for a long siege," Icando mused. "Or perhaps moving to attack the Pact?"

"Killing Hereon would end the main threat to his rule," Miraak agreed, but the expression on the First Dragonborn's face showed that he didn't think Medeborn had a chance in a thousand hells of succeeding where even he had failed. "Lifting the siege at Bravil will also do wonders for his image as his people's 'protector'," he snorted.

"I don't think he's planning on launching any attack," Babette thought aloud. "Those new weapons of the Blades have everyone in the Imperial Court running frantic."

The First Dragonborn's brows furrowed.

"What new weapons?"

"Some kind of magic ones," the child vampire shrugged between mouthfuls. "Cooked up by his pet Arch-Mage at Winterhold. They say it spits fire, outranging a good Imperial-issue bow by at least a dozen yards. Calls them gana… got… goons, I think."

"Guns?"

The tone of the queen's voice was almost shrill, and her eyes seemed to expand into saucers.

"That's it, guns!" nodded Babette in exultation, "No idea what that means, though…"

"Do you know what they look like?"

The voice had been brought back down to a normal octave, but all Tala's counselors eyed her with concern as they detected the _great_ strain with which she had done it.

Babette eyed Tala with a look of her own, but then traced a rough triangle with a line sticking out from it on her plate with wine.

"That's how one of the soldiers was describing it to his squad-mates anyway," she shrugged again. "I was just the homeless waif they had given a piece of bread to, sitting quietly in the corner."

Icando, Miraak, and Serana puzzled at the crude drawing.

"I don't recognize the design," Icando puzzled.

 ** _"I DO."_**

The queens' voice was thin, and chilled enough to freeze the very heart of the Red Mountain.

"Miraak," she barked, "Find Aldnaro and tell him to get his troops moving. Icando, do the same with the Vodahmin. We march for the Imperial City, and I don't mean at first light, or even in an hour's time. We march, and we march _NOW."_

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

 **Defecation, meet the Oscillating Device of Air Circulation. Oscillating Device of Air Circulation, meet Defecation. You two should be friends, you're going to be seeing a lot more of each other in the days to come.**

 **If you have never read/watched Shakespeare's _Henry V,_ go and do it now; you won't regret it. **

**Thanks for all the great encouragement, everyone! Feedback is the life-blood of any author! As always, your comments/ thoughts/ suggestions/ constructive criticisms are welcome in the reviews below, or PM me directly, even if it's just a simple "Thanks, I liked it," or "Good Job," or "You're a god amongst mortals." ;)**

 **ROCK ON, my friends!**

 **-Tusken1602**

* * *

Reviewer Responses:

Tech Warrior Ender – I think the role of ISIL in Tamriel is currently being played by Tiberius Medeborn. In his half-assed attempt to play everyone against everyone else, he's succeeded only in getting everyone pissed off at him. What will arise from the ashes of his little Empire, though… is anyone's guess.

JimmyHall24 – As an avid fan of firearms myself, in my head the Winterhold Dragon's Breath is a Tamriel-equivalent of a 1740 Long Land-Pattern "Brown Bess" flintlock musket. It's relatively simple to make (as in only a limited number of simple components), and with the aid of magic to cut down on misfires and limited accuracy, could be mass-produced even by the blacksmiths of the 4th Era. It's also something that even a casual student of history like Arch-Mage Sarah might be able to recall and replicate with the world of Elder Scrolls. That's my thought process, anyway.

Lord Wrath, JimmyHall24, NotRevan – oh, yeah, Tala's gonna have some words for Lewis and Sarah, next time she sees them. But they'll probably have some for her, too, something along the lines of "Miraak's ALIVE?!" or "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH ALL OF MY DRAGON MASKS!?"

badkidoh, hopelessromatnic34 – Oh, definitely, after the smoke clears, it's going to be a brand-new Tamriel: the Dominion has been gutted, and in dire need of rebuilding. The Vodahmin concepts of religious freedom and identity outside of one's nationality or people-group will have after-effects long into the future. And the Empire… well, there will essentially be a _new_ power base for the Empire, outside of the long-established centrality of Imperial City. Not to mention guns give power to a decentralized populace that can now take on the career fighters with equality, if not superiority. The clearly-defined class structure of Tamriel is in grave danger.

Bloodwolf432 – Nope, escaped that fate, by a hair's breadth.

tylermech66 – Oh, don't' worry: I plan on having at least one "Winterfell" chapter of all of these characters interacting together before it all goes down. ;)

Zarroc789, Wiwerse, Spartanzerg75 – Thanks, my friends! Appreciate the support!

EE-RAH!


	15. Chapter 15: Charged With Glory

***GOODWILL INN***  
 **BLEAKER'S WAY**  
 **CYRODIIL**

"So why are we here, sitting in this miserable inn, rather than back in the Imperial City?"

Titus Medeborn's question hung in the air, and _Imperator_ Moro had to take a moment to collect his own temper before he answered his emperor's petulance.

"Sire," he stated slowly, with careful patience, "We need a victory."

"You think I don't know that?" Medeborn snapped. "My _point_ is that even if we wiped out every soldier in the army at Bruma, we won't gain any substantial advantage."

"Would you rather have me take this army against Tala's vampires or the Dragonborn's sorcery?" Moro retorted before he could help himself. Medeborn looked sullen and pointed a finger at the map spread between them.

"Even if we can break the Nordic army," he went on, albeit in a much more neutral tone, "we are standing squarely in the middle of Tamriel, with an army on either side of us. I believe that is something my military tutors would have called 'a suboptimal position.'"

" _When_ we defeat this army," Moro replied, matching the emperor's calm, "Hereon _must_ react by falling back to defend Skyrim. That will leave Niwot alone and surrounded in enemy territory, and if she's not smart enough to turn around and run back to Hammerfell, then after we sever her supply lines and harry her advance parties…"

He stabbed a knife deep in the table

"At a place of our time and choosing."

Medeborn nodded slowly, and there was a much more thoughtful look in his eyes now.

"Then what? We still have the Covenant to deal with…"

"If we march westward, with news of a great victory running before us, the western provinces will rally to our side," Moro stated, much more hopefully than he felt, "And who knows? With their new-found friends on the run, the Dominion might very well rethink its position."

Medeborn nodded again, navigating the thought processes of his _Imperator_. The hopefulness of their plans were laced with not a small degree of sheer desperation. With the Summerset Isles and South Valenwood turning against the Empire, and Tala Niwot's Covenant consuming all before it, the only province that _wasn't_ actively attacking them was Elsweyr. And the oh-so-loyal Khajit had carefully explained that after dispatching their armies eastward towards the Argonian border and westward towards Valenwood, they simply had no troops left to send northward to their 'beloved' emperor's aid.

 _And the maddening thing is that they could actually be telling the truth_ , Moro thought angrily. Or, _if Heron and his allies occupy the Imperial City, they can always go groveling to him and protest that they never sent any military help for us to use against him directly._

Titus, Moro noticed, was once again nodding approvingly.

"But first we need a victory," the young emperor growled, as if he was _just now_ coming up with this plan all on his own, and stabbed a finger towards an icon at Bruma. "First, we need to smash this army here."

* * *

 ***BRUMA***  
 **COUNTY BRUMA**  
 **CYRODIIL**

The battle had been spectacularly evenly matched, Alesan thought to himself as he sat upon Frost. The white stallion tossed his head impatiently, eager to join the fight that was taking place below their position.

Below, the mages on either side were launching massive fireballs in concert with each other, multiple mages joining focus and strength to launch massive fire, frost, and lightning attacks at one another. In answer, the other side's mages were also lending their strength in supplying powerful Ward-Walls to stop the other's attack.

 _Evenly matched_ , he thought again. Neither side had done any significant damage to the other. Alesan had learned basic spell-casting from Sarai during the time she had spent with them, or the time they had passed at the College, but enough to know that he had no natural talent for it. He could cast a _simple_ bolt of fire, and a healing spell for both himself and a comrade, but not much else. His passion was the sword, and the axe, and the lance.

A part of him regretted not accompanying his father to Morrowind. By all account, some great battles had been fought there, the new "guns" proving themselves in battle against overwhelming odds. But another part of him understood why his father had attached him to Jarl Balgruuf's and General Rikke's force. And he was also glad to by Frothar's side as well. The two had been the best of friends, ever since Llewellyn Dragonborn had adopted a ragged Nordic boy from Dawnstar's mines. Alesan felt a cold chill and a shudder of excitement as he realized he was a boy longer. He was clad head to toe in the traditional armor of the Blades, with Dawnbreaker slung on his hip.

 _"This is the armor I wore when I slew the World Eater himself,"_ his father had said to him as he had been his own son's squire, adjusting leather straps and buckles. _"It has served me well in many fights. Now it will protect the life of my son."_

My son.

This was the man who had taken him in when he had nothing. When he had _been_ nothing. He had given him a home, a purpose. A sister. A father. A family of his very own. And now he had given him his very own armor and sword.

He would not fail him now. By Shor, by Ysmir, he would not. He may not have the Dragon blood, or the gift of the Voice, but Alesan Hereon would prove to the world that he was indeed worthy of being called Llewellyn Dragonborn's son. He would…

"Alesan!"

Frothar's shout brought his attention back to the present. His friend was pointing a finger at the battle just below them. Legionary archers were now marching forward in loose, scattered ranks, pressing forward to engage their Nordic counterparts.

But why would they…?

"They don't know we're here," he stated aloud. "They _can't,_ or they wouldn't be so foolish to send their archers so far forward."

" _How_ can they not know…?" Frothar began, and then understanding came across his face. "Irileth."

His father's personal housecarl had led the lion's share of the Imperial cavalry on a flanking maneuver off to the army's left. The watching Imperials had seen the horsemen depart, and had no doubt concluded that had been the _whole_ of the enemy's mounted contingent. The presence of the Whiterun Hold cavalry in the grove of trees on the right had gone, thus far, entirely unnoticed.

"Fools!" the heir to Whiterun whooped, drawing his own sword. "Let us teach them the error of their ways!"

"We have no orders to advance," Alesan replied, holding up a hand to quell his best friend's enthusiasm. He looked to his left, at the two gold-cloaked figures of his "uncles" Farkas and Vilkas.

"You have the command, my prince," Farkas replied in a low voice, but gave a reassuring smile along with the words. "We will follow your lead."

Alesan felt equal parts gratitude in their trust in his judgement and irritation at their having deferred the making of such a monumental decision squarely on _his_ shoulders. On the one hand, if the Imperials ( _the enemy Imperials_ , his subconscious reminded him, _Between Generals Rikke and Antonius, we have almost as many residents of Cyrodiil in our army as Nords_ ) were sending their skirmishers forwards as bait, the Whiterun cavalry could find themselves facing close legionnaires in a full _testudo_ and flung _pila_. They would not last for long against such foes.

 _But they don't know we're here._

By now, both armies' archers had opened fire. Frost, Fire, and Lightning-charged arrows rained down. The lever-action crossbow first designed by the Dawnguard had perhaps a slower rate of fire than an Imperial longbow, but the speed and power of the weapon was undeniable. Slowly, the ranks of the two armies' skirmishers began to dwindle.

 _That_ was enough to make up Alesan's mind. Orders or no, good soldiers were _dying_ down there, and he would not sit by and do nothing.

"Frothar!" he heard his own voice bellow. "Uncle Vilkas! Take the 1st Company right when we hit their archers. They _must_ commit their cavalry against us when they realize we're here. Take them far to the right and try and come at their flanks!"

"Yes, lord!" his best friend answered formally, spurring his own horse in answer to his commander's orders.

"Watch out for _infantry_!" Alesan yelled after him, and then turned back to Thorald Grey-mane. The ex-Stormcloak had been rescued by his father from a secret Dominion prison-cell. That had been the beginning of the reconciliation between the once-rival houses of Whiterun. There was nothing like _fondness_ yet between the two houses, but the sight of Thorald Grey-mane and Idolaf Battle-born mounted side by side, _both clad in Imperial armor_ , was evidence of how much progress Llewellyn Dragonborn had made in the Nordic political world.

"2nd and 3rd Companies to follow me! Alesan shouted and reached for the leather scabbard that held the long iron lance. He pointed forward at the Imperial ranks. Sound the advance! FORWARD!"

There was a low _blaat_ of Nordic ram-horns, rather than the shrill Imperial trumpets. The entire force exploded from the trees, shaking themselves into effective battle lines.

"Aaaaannnnnd…. LANCE!"

A _thousand_ lances lowered, and the reflected glint of the sunlight off their polished spearheads was like the glitter of stars.

"AT THE GALLOP!"

The horsemen came forward, their hooves churning the sod beneath leaving the ground behind them look like a plowed field. But their harvest was blood, and their reaper was steel. There were many who criticized the Whiterun household cavalry's choice to armor their riders and their mounts so heavily. This ensured that they could only do one thing effectively - charge forward and meet their enemy head-on. They could not match the skirmisher-tactics of Hjaalmarch or Falkreath's horsemen: to engage and fall back, to harry and harass an advancing foe. No, they were purely a blunt instrument, intended to fall upon their foes like the hammer of the gods. It was the one thing they did, but that one thing they did _very well_.

 _Very well, indeed_.

Arrows and spells still sparked forward to meet the wall of steel, and here and there a mount faltered and went down, but the ranks closed together, and the flower of the Whiterun Cavalry crashed into the foremost ranks of the Imperial archers… and kept going. The enemy ranks had been scattered into a loose formation, the better to protect them from their counterparts' return fire. But even if they had possessed the time or notion to stand shoulder-to-shoulder to meet the oncoming charge, they had no shields or spears to hold off the tide of death sweeping upon them. And the sheer shock of two hundred pounds of heavily armored rider astride nearly armored horses that weighed an average of three-quarters of a _ton_ , at a full gallop, made the enemy formation (such as it was) dissolve like mud bricks before a tsunami.

Alesan felt his arm jerk, exactly like he had practiced so many times at the practice yards of Helgen's Dragonskeep. But this time, his hollow practice lance had not shattered upon impact against a steel shield. _This_ lance was a solid, nine-foot-long beast tipped not with the broad practice heads used against targets or other comrades, but with a hardened steel point that let the sheer weight of a fully-armored charging horse drive all of its weight against a single point of an enemy's body. More often than not, that left three feet of ash wood in their opponent, ignoring armor almost completely. He dropped the ruined weapon and drew Dawnbreaker, the otherworldly weapon gleaming brightly. He slashed, and slashed again, leaving ruin in his wake.

Then he was through the archers' ranks, and there was only open field ahead of him. Open, save for the Imperial cavalry that was now galloping towards them. Even from here, he could see that they were lashing their horses forward, desperately trying to save the ranks of skirmishers who were already broken and dead.

"REFORM THE LINE!"

Farkas was beside him, shaking blood from his double-bladed battle-axe. The horsemen in the armor and livery of Whiterun, many of them still bearing unbroken lances, reformed from running down fleeing archers back into a heavily armored column of battle. Someone, he was never quite sure who, had handed him a replacement lance, and Dawnbreaker was back in its sheathe at his side. He raised the seven-foot-long ash pole and brought its iron point down.

"FORWARD!"

Another _blaat_ of the rams' horns sounded, and a second later, the shrill _tralala_ of Imperial trumpets answered. The Imperials were not as heavily armored as the Nords, but there were more of them, and they spurred their own mounts into a matching gallop, leveling long spears of their own. The two mounted companies came together in a colossal crash of steel, bone, and flesh. Both charges foundered, and the glorious pristine ranks of mounted soldiers devolved into a crowded, panicked brawl of men and mounts.

Alesan was only vaguely aware of the rider whom he had just skewered, just as he was only now aware that this second lance he had been handed was now only three feet of useless, broken splinters. He cast it aside and with a single deft motion, again caught up Dawnbreaker. Instinctively, his left arm came up, and his shield knocked the shorter Imperial blade aside, before he brought his weapon around in a blow that sent his opponent staggering back. Then Frost had carried him on, and in a move perfected by _thousands_ of hours of practice, he turned and emptied another saddle and sent another body crashing to the earth, the enemy rider's arm ending a few inches from the shoulder. Then Alesan looked forward again, searching for the next foe in his path.

* * *

"Well done, lads! Bravely done!"

Jarl Balgruuf the Greater nodded approvingly, seeing the Imperial cavalry melt before the Nords' charge just as their archers had done. There had been no time to send a messenger to order the young prince to rescue his outnumbered archers, but then again, it had turned out that there was no _need_ for such a messenger either. He and his own boy had done _exactly_ the right thing, recognizing the pivotal moment and reacting without need for promptings or corrections.

Unfortunately, even doing _all_ of the right things on a battlefield was no assurance of _surviving_ that battlefield, and he felt a father's pang as he watched his son's column crash into the now-disordered flank of the Imperial cavalry force.

 _"Bravely done_ ," he murmured again. "Brilliantly done."

"My lord, we must push forward!"

Rikke was beside him, her eyes wide at the result of the boys' spontaneous charge into the heart of the Imperial center. Balgruuf shook his head with a sorrowful expression.

"We're not in position," he stated. "Hemming Black-Briar and Brunwulf Free-Winter are still getting their levies into position. If we send the center forward too early, they'll be encircled."

Rikke set her face into a grim line.

"We're just going to _leave_ them to their fate?"

"Then we must have faith in our prince's judgement," the jarl of Whiterun replied gravely. "I gave him command of the Whiterun cavalry. I will not second-guess his judgement now."

Rikke said nothing, but her eyes widened in silent wonder. Balgruuf furrowed his brows and gave the Imperial general a glare in return.

"Do you think I don't _also_ want to be there by my son's side?" Balgruuf said in a low voice. "But what kind of a father would I be if I insisted on holding his hand all his life?" He set his face in a mask-like expression. "As _soon_ as you get word that the rest of our force is in position, send the skirmishers forward to cover the infantry's advance and the cavalry's withdrawal. And send another messenger to find out what has happened to Irileth!"

As Rikke rode away, barking orders of her own, Balgruuf turned back to look upon the melee that had swallowed his cavalry, and his eldest son, whole.

"All boys must become men," he murmured aloud, though there were none close enough to hear him now. "And men must become warriors."

* * *

Frothar was down.

Alesan was only dimly award of his friend's horse going down, out of the corner of his eye. He turned Frost, and with a tremendous leap over another heap of corpses, was at his friend's side in an instant. He leapt from the saddle and with two precise motions, killed the men about to rain blows down upon the prone Nord. Again, out of the corner of his eye, his noticed his shield, iron-bound at it was, was beginning to splinter and come apart. In almost the same fluid gesture, he slung it off his arm and sheathed his sword, reaching for the two-handed great axe that lay strapped to the saddle. This was brawler's work, and against heavily armored foes, a blade was useless, even one such as Dawnbreaker. Wuuthrad, on the other hand, would crush and shear through even the best armor as if it wasn't even there.

"To me!" He shouted, waving the mythical weapon over his head, "Sons of Skyrim, TO ME!"

Uncles Farkas and Vilkas were beside him now, their gold cloaks spattered with blood. Behind them lay twin swathes of death, destruction, and mayhem.

"My prince!"

The voice came distantly to Alesan's ear, and he lifted his helmet from his head, sucking in air greedily. He knew his muscles were shaking from sheer fatigue, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins still held that exhaustion at bay. He leaned over, setting aside his weapon to check for his unconscious friend's pulse.

"Yes?"

Farkas pointed a finger at the distant hilltop.

"Their infantry is advancing to join the fray!"

Sure enough, ranks upon ranks of armored legionnaires were coming forward at a double-quick march. Looking around him, he saw only a small remnant of the glorious ranks that had charged forward, and pitiful few of those remained mounted.

"Is this all that's left?" he asked in a tone of disbelief, verging on horror. To his great relief, his "uncle" waved a placating hand.

"Dengeir has taken his column left, pursing the remains of their mounted units," Farkas explained. "And Battle-born has taken his column right to flank the bastards."

"We must withdraw," Vilkas grunted, flicking the blood from his double-bladed axe. "They are too many. We are too scattered."

Turned to see his friend, still trapped under his fallen mount. He was still alive, but his breathing was shallow. It had been a great blow to the side of his head. The helmet had held but the blow had still been enough to knock Frothar unconscious.

"Signal the Jarl to send forward the infantry!" he called out in reply. "Every soldier still on a horse to follow Idolaf's column right. Those without mounts, rally to us here."

He turned, and caught up his own axe, feeling its familiar weight once again.

"We'll hold them as long as we can."

His two adopted uncles were heaving Frothar free of his fallen horse. To his immense relief, his best friend was coming to, shaking his head as if to clear his obvious concussion away.

"Fight's not over, Frothar Balgruufson," Farkas was saying, handing the boy the lever-action crossbow that had been strapped to his fallen horse's saddle. Remarkably, it was still undamaged, and the giant Companion handed him a quiver to go with it. "You don't have to be able to _stand_ to be able to fight."

Frothar nodded resolutely, and with a grunt, heaving effort, moved to be able to lean against the fallen carcass of his horse. The greyness of his face and the hiss of pain that escaped his lips, however, betrayed exactly how excruciating even that small movement had been. Gamely, however, he worked the lever-action and fitted a bolt to his weapon, determined to cover his friends as best as he could. One of the other Whiterun soldiers knelt beside him, clearly a mage of some sort, as evidenced by the golden aura that surrounded both himself and his jarl's injured heir.

Suddenly there was a sound like a blast of wind moving through a wheat field, and Alesan glanced upwards to see a volley of arrows sail over the now-dismounted cavalry and slam into the Imperial ranks. The broad shields of the legionnaires closed up, but their _running_ advance slowed to a steady walk that trailed broken arrows and injured soldiers.

"SHIELD WALL!" Alesan called out, snatching up a discarded shield that still bore the white horse-head sigil of Whiterun. The giant axe was harder to wield with only one hand, but not impossible, and other dismounted cavalrymen took their places at his side. Those who didn't have shields made way for those who did, and soon the time-honored formation of the Nordic people formed in answer to the advancing legionnaires. Everything in Alesan _screamed_ to order the advance, to take his soldiers into the teeth of the oncoming attack, to win glory and victory in one fell stroke…

 _"No,"_ he told himself, fighting the urge back down. If they advanced now, they would accomplish nothing beyond their own deaths. The archers harassing the legionnaires' advance would have to cease fire, in order to avoid shooting their own men. An arrow from behind killed an ally just as dead as an enemy arrow to the front, after all. That meant that more of the enemy would be in fighting shape when they finally _did_ clash with the main battle-line, and that meant…

"FALL BACK!" he ordered, and slowly, he and the rest of his command began stepping backwards to rejoin the rest of their comrades. He heard more than saw Frothar being carried along by the rear ranks, the healing spell reducing his injuries from "life-threatening" to merely "painful." Even the best healing spells couldn't set broken _bones_ , and from the look of the leg that had been beneath the falling horse, Alesan would be _very_ surprised if the femur wasn't shattered. The thought of protecting his friend was comforting to Alesan as he took more paces backwards. He and his command had done more than their part in this battle already.

" _And it's far from over,"_ Alesan thought grimly to himself as he shot a glance upwards to judge the time of day from the sun. " _In fact, I'd say it's only just beginning_."

* * *

 **Author's Note:  
I'm sorry I'm uploading this on-the-go, and I don't have the time to answer everyone's reviews individually like I always do! But know that each and every one of your thoughts, suggestions, and constructive criticisms is very well taken! You all are the main driving force behind what I've written so far, and I appreciate you all! **

**Please, keep it up!**

 **ROCK ON, my friends!**

 **-Tusken1602**


End file.
